


The Boyking

by Idreamofhazel



Series: The Boyking [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apocalypse, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Boyking Sam, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Blood, F/M, Gen, King of Hell Sam, Lucifer supporters vs Sam supporters, Manipulative Ruby, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Ruby/Sam Winchester, Moral Dilemmas, Past Child Abuse, Preventing the Apocalypse, Sam fighting to keep his throne, Strained Relationships, Torture, breaking seals of the apocalypse, deeply flawed reader, hell politics, reckless reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2018-08-30 01:24:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8513383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idreamofhazel/pseuds/Idreamofhazel
Summary: Sam became Azazel’s Boyking. Dean couldn’t stop it and now he lives in uncomfortable tolerance of Sam, struggling to understand why this happened. Sam is content on his throne, more than happy to allow Dean and all other hunters to live in peace. He understands that there places for the jobs of Heaven, Hell, and everything in between.You’re a hunter, reckless and power hungry, desperate to gain the upper hand in life. You’re given the task of killing the King of Hell and you don’t back down from it. Not until you meet the man behind the throne himself.Trouble is brewing behind the scenes of Sam’s peaceful reign, though. Lucifer-sympathizers are going rogue and breaking seals to start the Apocalypse, and your presence in Hell stirs discord among the demons. When you inadvertently get involved with the King of Hell, you get involved with the trouble, too. Will you be able to survive your time in hell and the hell politics? Will Sam be able to convince you he’s not the cold-hearted demon you think he is? Will Sam save his throne, and those he loves, from the coming threats, or will Lucifer rise and the Apocalypse wreak havoc on Earth, Heaven, and Hell?





	1. Introduction: Dean

When it came down to it, the single most important choice of Dean’s life, he couldn't do it. 

"Dad said I might have to kill you, Sammy." 

But he never did. 

Dean had every reason to pull the trigger. He had the colt. He had the demon blade at the time. He even had the rationale. 

But when he stood face-to-face with Sam--blood dripping from his teeth after consuming an entire body of demon blood, his eyes wild with lust and fire, hands clenched with unknowable, dangerous power--Dean saw the little kid who wanted him to have the amulet necklace instead of dad. 

So he walked away. He dropped the weapons onto the grass, leaving them amongst the headstones in the night. He saw Azazel sneering with pride behind Sam, looking on at his perfectly unfolded plan, the Boy King in all his glory. The coronation was complete, a rushed ceremony held before the Devil's Gate in Wyoming. The doors were open, spirits and demons alike escaping, ignorant of the boy who would soon be their ruler. Sam was permanently changed to fit his role, not a demon, not a human. Maybe some sort of hybrid. And he had his crown of blood. 

And Dean walked away. 

_"I can do it, Dean. I can. I'll be powerful enough to kill him."_

 _"And then what? You think you're just gonna walk away from that? Unchanged?"_

 _

"I'll figure it out. Yellow eyes needs to die. He needs to pay for what he did to our family." 

"Not like this, Sam. I can't- you know what dad said to me about you."

_

In the end, Sam didn't listen to Dean. He let Azazel influence him, let Ruby give him a taste of the demon drug. He let his head be filled with fantasies of overpowering the darkness coursing through his veins and being strong enough to kill Azazel. 

Sam had toyed with the idea ever since he learned of yellow-eyes' grand plan. Dean tried as hard as he could to pull Sam off that ledge, pull him away from the burning fires of hell, but it hadn't worked. Sam doubted his ability to resist the evil too much and he had a savior complex the size of the titanic. He thought that eventually, he’d give in either way and that if he were to give in, it should be his own decision. That he might actually be able to make something good come of it. It was a deadly combination of self-doubt and the need to save people from the terrors of hell that made him believe he could defeat Azazel. 

The final straw, the event that tipped him over the edge, was Cold Oak. By the time Dean learned of Sam's location, he was too late. He and Bobby arrived at the abandoned town to find all of the psychic kids dead and Sam missing. Later, Sam would tell Dean that he only killed one of them himself, Jake, who had threatened Sam, giving him no choice. Dean wasn't sure if he believed him. 

Weeks went by before Dean and Bobby learned of Azazel's next move. By the time they caught up to him, Sam was too far gone, having been influenced by Azazel and having drank his fill of demon blood repeatedly, his addiction cemented. There wasn’t anything Dean could do or say to change Sam’s mind as they all stood in front of the devil’s gate, various creatures of hell escaping. 

Dean knew what Sam was thinking as he stood across from him in the cemetery. 

_"I've got it under control. This is all part of the plan. The hell gate, it was necessary. Azazel needs to trust me."_

Dean never gave up on Sam though, not even after Wyoming. After Dean walked away, he waited for Sam to come back down from the high, but deep down, he knew there was no chance of that. He had said it himself, that Sam couldn’t walk away from this unchanged. Still, he hoped. He didn't know whether it was familial love or stubbornness or some combination of the two that kept the flame flickering, but he never ceased to imagine the day that Sam would renounce his throne and ride with Dean in the Impala again, blasting classic rock and singing off key. 

It almost happened one time. At least, Dean had a rush of hope that sent the flicker into a blazing heat. Sam had killed Azazel. It was just a few months after his coronation. 

Sam sent word to Dean through the use of a demonic footmen, an invitation that included a request to visit him and hear of his victory. After nearly exorcising the scum, Dean actually listened to it's message and took the parchment envelope from its hands. He had looked down at the blood red seal safely guarding the contents of the message, contemplating whether or not to open the dangerous letter or put it through a shredder. The demon had gone after he delivered it. Then it was just Dean alone with his choice and his festering self-hatred because he never should have let this happen to Sam. 

The seal bore the picture of the five-point star of the hell gate with a simple crown situated in the middle. The whole thing was obnoxious--the formal, impersonal delivery, the expensive stationary, the shiny glob of wax with an actual insignia pressed into it. Dean had three-fourths a mind to rip it in half and toss it in the trash, but curiosity got the better of him. He wanted to know how Sam was doing. 

He sighed, his usual sign of defeat, before sliding his finger underneath the wax seal, thin layers of the envelope tearing off and sticking to the red glob. The contents were a single piece of paper decorated with generic print. He didn't know what he had hoped for. Maybe a personal note. Sam's handwriting. An apology. He got none of those. 

_"His majesty, Samuel Winchester, King of Hell, requests your presence on the date of September 25th, 2007 at four o’clock in the afternoon for a celebration of his majesty's ascendancy to the throne."_ Sam's signature was at the bottom. 

Well damn. Sam had gone and made himself the King of Hell. 

Dean was frozen from the conflicting emotions coursing through his veins, staring dumbfounded at the single slip of paper. He wanted to scream, throw punches, curse and murder every stinking black-eyed pile of crap that had ever led him and Sam to this position. He wanted to drop to his knees and wail, begging for forgiveness for ever letting this happen to his little brother, his precious Sammy, that he and John had tried so hard to keep in the dark about monsters. He wanted to put the pretentious letter through a shredder and then burn the leftover pieces, leaving no trace of its offense. If Dean didn’t have the letter, he didn’t have to think about Sam, his Sammy, sitting on the throne of hell. And had they really needed to write "his majesty" twice? 

Eventually, he tucked the letter into the inside pocket of his bag, beside his socks, and made a mental note of the date. Then he went on his way to working a case. 

As the date drew nearer, though, Dean couldn’t resolve to just keeping a mental note. Sam had at least been courteous enough to give Dean a month to decide and the letter had remained in that pocket for three weeks, becoming wrinkled and worn. But stuffing the letter there didn’t make the thought of it leave Dean’s mind. The image of the seal and Sam’s signature were constantly nagging at him because his brother was _the king of hell_ and he didn’t think he actually wanted to see Sam sitting on a throne, or whatever it is demon kings sat on. 

This also wasn’t a birthday invitation of an acquaintance that he’d rather forget about. He probably couldn’t afford to forget about it. Somebody would come to collect him sooner or later. So he pulled the letter out, for the first time since he’d stuffed it in his bag, and he read it over again. There was no way to RSVP, no instructions on how to even get to hell anyway. Maybe Dean could just forget about it altogether, play his absence off as a result of a clerical error. Sam probably wouldn’t make it that easy, though. He always had a tendency for talking and dragging Dean around to face his problems and Dean doubted that he had changed that much. He hoped he hadn’t changed that much. Knowing Sam, he’d find a way to get Dean down there. Probably had demons watching him anyway. 

He wasn’t wrong. On September 25th at four o’clock in the afternoon, another footmen of sorts knocked on Dean’s motel door, immediately flashing his black eyes upon seeing Dean’s face. Dean sighed, already tired of picturing Sam as king of hell. Exhausted from guilt. Run down from regrets. He thought he would need his bag, but he was told not to bring it, and so he tagged along behind the demon, without any quips or protests, slipping into the back of a nondescript, but well-cared-for black sedan. 

They pulled in front of ramshackle shotgun house with boarded up windows and overgrown weeds in the lawn. The car was an eyesore in this neighborhood, as were the suits that the demons were wearing, but they strode up to the door without hesitation, a routine in their step, and one of them opened the door while the other waited behind Dean, their stance telling him he should go ahead in. 

The inside was the same as the outside. Glass littered on the floor, a moldy couch turned over and broken, dust balls in the corners. Dean had expected that maybe this was some passage to hell, but it was just a house. That didn't sit right with him and now he was preparing to fight without weapons, all of them left in his car and his bag back at the motel. How foolish had he been, to actually believe that Sam would still treat him the same now that he had gone full dark-side. Or maybe that wasn’t even Sam’s letter. For all he knew, Azazel was calling the shots. 

So when the demons stepped inside, he was turned towards them, fists balled, fight or flight switched to “fight.” 

They stopped just inside the door, watching Dean’s movements. 

“Relax. We were ordered not to touch you,” one of them said, like the words left a foul taste on his tongue. 

“This is where we open the portal to hell,” the other explained, striding past Dean almost as if he were an afterthought. 

Dean could only watch as they spoke some incantation in front of an empty doorway, their backs turned to him. 

“This is how you get to hell?” he wondered aloud. 

“It’s the most efficient way. Family of his majesty first.” The demons stood on either side of the door, which was now glowing orange around the edges, gesturing to him that he should step through. And so he did, with no idea of what or who was awaiting him, what heartache or what guilt, what anger or what life changing events that were about to unfold. He went on through with his half-cocked attitude layering over his vulnerable insides, which was the only way he knew how to handle anything of this magnitude. 

That first meeting, which was the first of very few over the next five years, was as awkward and tense as any other. The only change over the years was the gradual assurance that neither of them were going to kill the other. But that very first encounter between the two-brothers-turned-almost-enemies was an opportunity to feel the other one out. They each needed to do so for their own reasons and Sam was gracious enough to let that happen. 

Initially, Dean was brought to the throne room to see Sam perched atop his black and purple seat, a picture of grace and darkened eyes, clothed in an all-black tailored suit. The reason for meeting this way at first was not so much to make Dean revere him, but so that he could see Sam was not fooling around. This was real. This was him. And he knew Dean would be suspicious and so would his demon subjects, so they were all in one room together at first until the tension was settled out, at which point Sam stepped down from his chair and requested that everyone leave except for Dean. 

_“Dean, it’s so good to finally see you,”_ were Sam’s first words to Dean alone and he had said them before outstretching his arms to embrace Dean, but Dean stood as a statue. The man in front of him now was not his little brother and he was not hugging him. 

But Sam continued on as if nothing had not happened, hiding his disappointment perfectly. He walked and talked with a distinctive Sam-mannerism, but it was detailed and bolstered with a clear, black power given to him by not only the demon blood, but his place as hell’s king. He stood a little straighter, spoke more succinctly. 

He detailed what had happened to him in the months that he and Dean had been apart. He didn’t hide any details from his brother, which was part of the reason he wanted to talk to him alone. The demons in his court wouldn’t take too kindly to hearing him spill out the matters of hell to a human, and a hunter at that. Sam told him about the time before Cold Oak, the events of Cold Oak, and everything between and after Wyoming. Then he recited the history of his brief time as the general of Azazel’s army, trainee for the throne, and his plan and path to killing the demon who had wanted to be his advisor with too strong of a hand in Sam’s affairs. 

He dumped all of this and more on Dean in one sitting. Dean left that day knowing much more than he bargained for and feeling just as conflicted as ever. Sam wasn’t ever going to step down. He liked his position and was trying to prevent the apocalypse from happening, which apparently had been Azazel’s next big step. 

_“I’m protecting the world, and us, Dean. This way, it goes on turning and we don’t have to fight each other.”_

That sure did sound nice to Dean, but why did it have to be this way? 

Sam never did tell Dean just how complicated all of the hell politics were, that there were some who hated Sam for murdering Azazel, that wanted to raise Lucifer and see the apocalypse happen, that factions would probably rise up and go rogue, attempting to break the seals and get the ball rolling. There was no point in divulging all of that to Dean because, at the time, there was nothing Dean could do to help Sam. It was best that Dean go on hunting, doing what he did best. Sam would never take that away from him. 

But Dean lived in fear for his life for awhile, until he learned that Sam considered there to be a balance to the world order and saw Dean’s job as just as necessary as his own. Sam’s morals seemed twisted and opaque to Dean. He never did understand them fully, but he learned over the years that if the King of Hell decreed something, such as that Dean Winchester was never to be harmed, then he kept his word and rained down his wrath on anyone who disobeyed him.


	2. Introduction: Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam’s path to the throne is recounted from his point of view.

The devil within Sam had gone by many names over the years. In its mildest form, it’s nickname was “freak,” but even that childish insult had evolved into something much more sinister as the years progressed. First, Sam was a freak because he didn’t have a mom, he moved around, and never had consistent friends. Then he was a freak because his dad hunted monsters, he had to lie to everyone about what his family did for a living, and he discovered that a monster had murdered his mother. Those revelations were caused by his own curiosity, finding his dad’s journal tucked safely in his belongings while Dean was preoccupied with video games. Then, at age eighteen, he was a freak to his family because he wanted to live normally. He left them and went to college. That proved to be the first of one of his many unforgivable sins. 

Finally, he was a freak because dormant psychic abilities suddenly made themselves known. That evolution of the name “freak” was the hardest one to bear. It gained him worried and mistrusting glances from Dean and more distance from his father. He could never understand why his brother and dad felt so strongly about it, though. They’d had many psychic friends over the years. They were no stranger to dealing with people who lived on the edge of the physical and metaphysical.

John and Dean’s trepidation about Sam was explained after John died. Sam came into a full understanding of just how much of a freak he was when John left Dean with the most terrible ultimatum: kill Sam or let the evil take over. That wasn’t exactly how his dad had put it. Sam was fudging his words a bit, but that’s how Sam took it nonetheless. John had let both of his boys know, without much detail, that there was something sinister growing inside Sam. And it didn’t help that after the day Dean repeated those words to Sam, whenever he looked at Dean’s face, he no longer saw hope or trust or faith. Instead, there was only disappointment and hesitancy, as if he were waiting to jump on Sam the moment he went dark-side.

Sam wouldn’t have blamed Dean for ending his life if he needed to. He would’ve preferred that Dean was on his side, but he realized that fate had been aligned against him his entire life and that maybe it was too much for either of them to fight. The evil inside of him, placed there by Azazel, had been following him around since he was six months old, controlling everything, putting chess pieces in place in order to win the game against an ignorant opponent. Sam didn’t stand a chance. It had been a shadow hovering over him, breaking away at pieces of his life in the hopes that he would break and let the evil consume him. He was beginning to see the possibility of it happening by the time Azazel took action on that plan.

Sam fought it tooth and nail for awhile. He knew right from wrong. He knew that his family’s life was devoted to hunting evil, not becoming it. He clung to the hope still residing in him that told him he and Dean were enough to kill yellow-eyes and set everything right. But eventually that small flame was extinguished by finding out about Azazel’s plans to open a Hell Gate and raise an army. They learned that his plans weren’t just about Sam, although he was at the center, and that Azazel had been orchestrating this for decades. He already had a significant amount of followers ready to strike at his command and psychic children lined up to do his bidding. Taking out Azazel suddenly felt like a pipe dream. What were they against such a powerful creature?

They needed to avenge their mother, though, and now their father. It had been their life’s purpose since either of them could remember. Dean’s idea was to use the one bullet left in the colt and send it through Azazel’s skull. Sam liked the sound of the idea, but he doubted that it could work. What if Azazel had juiced himself up and the bullet was ineffective? What if they were outnumbered by Azazel’s followers and he took the gun from them anyway? What if they weren’t strong enough?

Sam had been secretly contemplating a way to make himself powerful enough, storing the idea away in the back of his mind until the right time to pitch it to Dean, ever since Azazel visited him in a dream. He had revealed the plans he had for Sam since he was an infant and he let Sam in on a piece of information about his possible kingship and his powers: they would only come to pass through the consumption of demon blood. Azazel had begun the process when Sam was six months old, but Sam had to choose to finish it. 

Initially, the thought had disgusted Sam and he rejected Azazel’s entire speech, but as the date of Azazel’s gate-opening grew closer, the power of the demon blood enticed Sam more and more. It was a sure-fire way to defeat demons, one that wasn’t dependent on Dean’s aim with a pistol. Sam had more control over this weapon and maybe it would give him some control in other areas, too. But even if going down this path didn’t benefit him at all, he would still be able to take Azazel off the chessboard and let the world live on in relative safety. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make: his life for the existence of the world.

Of course, Dean hadn’t liked the idea. He had absolutely rejected it, finding it repulsive and reckless. Sam shouldn’t have been surprised, but part of him hoped that maybe Dean would consider him strong enough to take on Azazel. Dean never did, though, and no matter how many times Sam brought up the possibility, Dean shot him down without ever really listening to him. Dean’s insistence on pretending that Sam had never brought up the idea only made the fight grow stronger in him. If his brother wouldn’t have faith in him, he’d just have to prove that he was worthy of it. Dean wasn’t his keeper anyway. At the end of the day, the choice belonged to Sam and Sam alone.

In an uncanny moment of coincidence, Sam was planning his escape to confront Azazel himself the night he was kidnapped and boarded in hell. Sam had dropped the subject of Azazel for about a week, pretending to go along with Dean’s plan for the sake of peace. They were on their way to the Roadhouse to talk to Ash, hopefully to hear some promising information about the whereabouts of Azazel, but Sam was rendered unconscious and kidnapped inside a diner where they made a pitstop. He awoke sometime later unsure of how much time had passed. He had expected a dungeon, or any variety of more barbaric living arrangements, considering that demons had taken him, but it seemed that Azazel was trying to make a good impression. When he opened his eyes, he saw stone walls and a plush comforter on top of a king sized bed with four ebony posts. After gaining his bearings and making certain that no demons were hidden in the room, he lay there in silence, contemplating his options and his next moves. It was in those last few moments alone, after he woke up in the strange bedroom and before Azazel came knocking on his door, that he resolved to play along with the game. This was his chance to prove that he was strong enough, to choose his own path, to take control of the evil that had been meant to control him. He would make Azazel trust him and then he would end him.

Azazel had knocked on the massive wooden door, the taps sounding like thunderous echoes inside the stone walls. He had given Sam considerable time alone and allowed him to come to the door on his own terms. Sam didn’t wait long to open it and allow Azazel in, shuffling back into the room in socked feet and yesterday’s clothes.

“I trust that you’ve found your accommodations pleasing?” Azazel asked, stopping in the middle of the room.

“They’re alright,” Sam quipped.

Azazel chuckled. “I like you, Sam, I always have. You’ve got a bit of spunk in you, a bit of bite. We can put that to good use.”

“And what makes you think I’d want to do that?”

Neither of them moved from their positions, biceps tensing and jaws flexing. Eye-contact was steady. Sam could see swirls of yellow flowing throughout Azazel’s irises almost as if they were a sign of his surfacing frustration. Azazel was the first to break the stiff atmosphere.

His eyes lit up as he shifted his stance. “Call it a…premonition. I can see it in your eyes. You’re ready.”

Sam didn’t want to play his response too eager. His lips remained taut. He didn’t move or change his expression. He spoke with the confidence fitting of the role he would soon take on. “They’ll be conditions.”

“Of course.”

“Dean is left alone.”

“Mhm.”

“And I’m allowed to stop at anytime.”

Azazel pondered that for a moment as Sam towered over him, lean muscles and floppy hair faintly disguising the power stirring inside him, manifesting itself at just the right time. Sam’s eyes strained to keep their composure. They gave everything away and showed his crumbling resolve. That was a tough demand for Azazel to concede to, but once Sam began this path, there was no way he’d want off. Agreeing to the stipulation was just an appeasement, bringing Sam further into Azazel’s claws.

“Done.”

With those words, Sam and Azazel entered into a partnership.

Sam then spent a few weeks in hell, learning about Azazel and his plans, being given more detail than he ever could have imagined. He got a taste of how hell was run, the ins and outs and the day-to-day workings of the underworld. Azazel showed him his future throne, his future subjects, and his future duties, all under the guise that Sam was going to see it all through.

Sam absorbed every piece of information given to him and some that weren’t. Azazel gave him the squeaky clean version of hell that he wanted to sell, but Sam, through his intelligence and tenacity, found ways to eavesdrop and converse that gained him valuable insights into the weaknesses of Azazel’s regime. Azazel was a Lucifer sympathizer, as were many of the demons, but a vast majority of them weren’t. Lucifer was Azazel’s long-term plan, though, and the demons who opposed this final outcome figured that as soon as Azazel popped Lucifer out of the cage, Lucifer would wreak havoc not only on earth, but in hell, too. He was an angel after all and had loved heaven. Anything that came from earth’s creation was an abomination to him. It was in these details that Sam found a crack in Azazel’s legitimacy and power. Knowing this, Sam decided it was possible to persuade some of the demons to side with him in his quest to kill Azazel, but he had to play out that plan carefully. He was still the vermin hunter, a human in the midst of hell even though all of that would change after his transformation.

Azazel introduced Ruby to Sam early on, during the first couple of days in hell. She was beautiful–long black hair and unapologetic attitude–and it was hard for Sam to be disgusted by her. She was a stepping stone in his plan, though, as was he in hers, being a willing volunteer for Sam’s initiation into demon blood consumption and a lifelong supporter of Azazel and his long term plans–the psychic kids, the army, and further. She had a tight hold on the inner circle dealings of hell, somehow able to worm her way into meetings and hearings and big events, like bringing the Sam Winchester to hell. Eventually, she would become a similar type of member in Sam’s court, but at the moment, she was sustenance, Sam’s first source of power, and expendable to him.

The first taste of her blood was dizzying, a surge of electricity that shot it’s way through Sam’s nerves and muscles, eventually settling deep within them comfortably, buzzing throughout his body. He could feel every bit of it inside him after the initial high faded off, the fog clearing and giving way to new type of clarity. His senses were enhanced, his visions sharper. It took no time at all for the taste to become a deep desire on Sam’s tongue, permeating not only his blood stream but his thoughts. He was told to go easy, to allow time for his body to acclimate to the effects of the substance, but he couldn’t wait as long as he was told between drinks. Ruby had no problem fulfilling his desire anytime he needed it, though, so Sam progressed much quicker than planned.

He trained with Ruby as well. Azazel was often a pleased spectator during those sessions. He watched Sam grow in his abilities, exorcising demons with his mind and stretching his psychic muscles. But Sam’s training wasn’t complete until Cold Oak. Azazel informed him in sufficient detail about what would happen there, describing the elaborate set up that had been in operation for months now. He explained that many kids had come and gone through this test already and that now only the last few remained, one of which would be Sam. The last round of psychic kids were being placed in an arena with the standing champion and the future general of Azazel’s army. The odds hardly seemed fair, but Sam was going to do whatever it took to gain Azazel’s trust. The fate of the world depended on it.

Azazel never told Sam the name of the champion, so he was left to figure that out on his own, but it didn’t take long. She was a woman by the name of Ava. Enhanced by demon blood, Sam’s b.s. detector was fine tuned and hypersensitive. He could see past her over-emotional outbursts and poorly thought out lies, but he allowed her charade to play on as he played his. As far as the other kids went, Lily got herself killed trying to escape. Sam told her it wasn’t safe, but she didn’t listen. Ava eventually murdered Andy, which didn’t come as a surprise to Sam, and then she was murdered by Jake. Sam didn’t have to persuade, sway, or manipulate any of them. Azazel’s set up did all the heavy work, exposing their most basic instinct of survival, pitting them against each other. Sam was still left with Jake, though, and the necessity of getting himself out.

He waited Jake out and observed how he handled the reality that only one of them would make it out alive. They played the team game for a little while until their nerves ran too high. Again, Sam didn’t have to lift a finger. Jake began the conversation all on his own and eventually it escalated into a fight outside the town. Sam fought until it was clear that Jake meant to kill him with no hesitation. And then Sam struck him with a fatal blow to the head.

Azazel swooped in moments later, collecting Sam so they could celebrate his first victory. Little did he know, Dean and Bobby were going to arrive moments later. They had caught up to Azazel, only to find the place deserted and four bodies scattered throughout the town, not knowing if Sam had killed them all or not, but left to assume he had.

After that trifling victory, Azazel began to entrust Sam with more important pieces of information and bigger quantities of demon blood. It was Azazel who first mentioned the apocalypse to Sam and how to begin it. Azazel explained the process to him as a mastermind would present his ideas to a panel, utilizing all the grandeur and persuasion he could muster. He painted a warlike picture of Sam, altered by demon blood and shaping up to be a king, eventually taking the throne with Azazel by his side. And then together, they would orchestrate the breaking of the seals and prepare for Lucifer to rise. By then, Sam should be ready to concede to being Lucifer’s vessel and allow hell to be ruled as it always should’ve been, by the father of demons.

The plan was flawless, except for a few minor details.

Sam acted his role perfectly, all the way until Wyoming and even past that, having the patience to time his plans rightly. Wyoming proved to be a difficult evening for many reasons. It was the night of Sam’s final transformation. He was supposed to consume his record quantity of blood, and he did, a whole body’s worth of it. At first the intense rush was nauseating and it keeled him over, making him afraid that his body would ultimately reject it, but instead, all of his work paid off and the power began to change him. It flowed throughout his veins. He could feel it, every tendril and flare, every ebb and flow, licking at the walls inside his body. He blacked out momentarily, after which he woke up internally and visibly different. He had a clarity like none before, a strength and an acumen, and these effects were not temporary. He had been permanently satiated and he was no longer Sam, the boy with demon blood. He was something else entirely, the demon blood having fused with his own irreversibly, neither part erasing the other, creating a being far more powerful than either human or demon alone.

At that moment, he knew what his next step was and he had every bit of strength to accomplish it. So without cleaning himself up, letting the blood stains on his teeth and chin remain, he went to the Devil’s Gate.

He could pass over the iron trap, since half of him was human. He broke the line, allowing Azazel’s army to pass through, and he and Azazel arrived in the cemetery together, each with a slightly different picture in their heads of what that night was going to mean for the future.

Dean and Bobby were already there, though, along with Ellen. Whatever fight his friends could muster would be disheartening to watch, so Sam spent little time bickering or reasoning with Dean. The time for that had passed long ago, before he was whisked away to hell. He let a few words spill out of Dean’s mouth, mostly _You don’t have to this, Sammy,_ but Sam just stood with his chin high and said “Yes, I do.” Then he snapped the colt out of Dean’s hands and into his own, walking up to the Devil’s gate, and then sliding it into the lock mechanism.

He didn’t want to release so many creatures of hell, but if he didn’t do this one thing, Azazel would no longer trust him. So he let the doors fly open and watched as spirits and demons alike flew by in wispy clouds of black and gray and white, zipping past everyone standing in the cemetery. Dean kept his eyes on Sam while Ellen and Bobby scrambled to close the heavy doors being pushed open by the force of hell. Azazel stood behind Sam as he and Dean had their stand off.

There were a lot of things Sam could say to Dean in that moment, none of them useful or redemptive, but many of them he wanted to say nonetheless. And there were many things Dean could say to Sam as well, but he didn’t. Neither of them spoke to each other that night and for many days after the gate was opened.

Sam watched as Dean dropped his demon knife on the ground, gave Sam one last longing glance, and then walked away.

Sam’s heart broke inwardly, losing the last bit of family he had, the one person who had taken care of him over the years and looked out for him, but he remained cold on the outside. Soon, the next chance he got, he would see Dean again and hopefully make him understand.

That day didn’t come for a few months, though. Sam needed time to settle into his new identity, the combination of the new creature he became and his title. He became familiar with his powers and with the subjects of hell, mostly those who supported Azazel and those who didn’t. He found that many realized the dangers of letting Lucifer out of the cage and he played on those fears greatly, amassing a following of sorts for himself. He gained trust with a few core insiders, namely demons by the names of Ruby, Crowley, and Alistair, who held already important positions within the court of hell.

And then, when he was settled enough to rule on his own and he found the opportune moment, he held Azazel down with his own powers on the floor of his throne room, the demon no match for the human-demon hybrid, and Sam personally sliced his throat with the blade that Dean had so conveniently left him.

No one dared to oppose Sam for some time following the coup. The brazen act showed them all just how serious he was about his place on the throne. And once the excitement died down in hell, he sent word to Dean as an act of reaching out and reconnecting. Dean would have lots of questions and concerns and Sam wanted to answer them all.

That meeting went mostly as Sam expected. There existed a distance between them, both of them afraid of the other for different reasons. Dean because he didn’t know how Sam felt about him now. Sam could kill him with the flick of his wrist if he so desired. And Sam, because he didn’t know just how far Dean’s rejection of him ran or how far his hatred would grow. But the meeting ended without any yelling, death threats, or insults. Dean was just taking it all in, the throne room, the formalities, Sam standing with such dignified power. Sam was showing Dean who he was, making it more familiar while opening up the lines of communication between them so that maybe some part of their relationship could remain.

Sam resolved to tell Dean every bit of information he could, hopefully to gain Dean’s trust back and to help him realize that this wasn’t the end of his world. Sam was comfortable where he was at. He had accepted himself and was in control. He let the position of royalty flow naturally through him without any hesitation. He didn’t want Dean feeling guilty for any of this. If Sam showed a hint of regret, a hint of self-hatred, Dean would take it all upon himself and let it eat him away. So Sam appeared before Dean confident and content to spare him some of that pain, which never belonged to him in the first place.

This was Sam’s place now… and he was enjoying it. He had finally made peace with the devil within.


	3. Reader's Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are set on Sam Winchester's trail by none other than Gordon Walker. 
> 
> Inspired by [If You Want Blood (You've Got It)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6EWqTym2cQU) by AC/DC

As you sat tensely, elbows propped up on the slick countertop of a bar, a drop of condensation from your glass plopped onto your right leg. A few drunk fingers fell onto your bare shoulder at the same time and you looked down at your thigh to see the annoying water droplets soaking into your pants. You forgot them, promptly smacking the fingers off, much to the chagrin of the buff cowboy sitting on the barstool next to you. And then you swiped off what remained of the condensation.

“You don’t want a piece of this, honey,” you snapped.

“How doya know tat.” His words sloshed out like the beer froth from his mug he was precariously setting on the counter. He’d been eyeing you all night, getting drunk enough to approach you. He hadn’t been as subtle as he imagined, so you’d seen everything he’d done so far to prepare himself. Most guys felt the need to drink their courage before approaching you, it was just a natural effect of your I-Don’t-Give-A-Damn aura.

“Call it personal experience. Now, move along.” Your fingers showed him the way to the opposite side of the bar, a little shove shove to get him moving on his way.

He left with a ‘hmph’, and thankfully nothing more. You weren’t in the mood to beat anybody up tonight, nor did you have the time for bar brawls. You had a meeting on his way and you didn’t want it delayed.

This wasn’t your usual way of finding a gig. You usually found your work by yourself, but this job promised to be big, and that prospect alone tempted you. Gordon wasn’t all bad either, but he wasn’t the most pleasant man you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. He talked like he was always strung out on something, eyes bugging from his drug of choice, which, in his case, happened to be vengeance mixed with well-hidden Machiavellianism. His method was a little too black and white for you, a purist take on hunting backed by years of emotional turmoil and wrath that had settled so deep within him that he appeared calm twenty-four seven. But you knew an unhinged man when you saw one.

You, on the other hand, preferred to give the scum of the earth an opportunity to prove you wrong. If you chanced upon a vampire that had starved itself of human blood or a rugaru that ate raw cows, hassling no one, you’d let them slip away with a stern warning. Usually an injury of some sort. Your method was backed by a life of turmoil, too, but you felt that you’d dealt with it better than Gordon. You figured that you had a few things in common with the monsters, all of you just trying to make it alone in this world, burdened by a lot in life that none of you chose. That bloody and traumatizing life was handed to each of you without any instructions except “deal with it.” If anyone at all could understand how heavy of a burden that kind of life was, you could, so you didn’t give anyone or anything more trouble than they deserved.

There was the perk of control, too; making the decision between life and death. Letting some of the monsters go gave you a sense of far reaching and personal power. Because when they did mess up, and most of them did, you came down hard with no second chances. You handed out their retribution however you saw fit, showing no mercy because by the time you encountered the monster a second time, mercy was a laughable idea. You executed this method identically each time, following the rules you set for yourself in deciding someone else’s fate, enjoying it because hadn’t ever been able to decide your own.

But the second-chance monsters were few and far between. Most of them were of the garden variety, chomping down on humans left and right, giving you an easy kill, morally speaking, and a simple mission in life. Kill everything that deserves to be killed. Punish everything that deserves to be punished. Living that way made sense to you and it let you demonstrate your need for vengeance in a somewhat healthy manner, unlike Gordon, whose hunting philosophy was dangerous to humans and monsters alike. His method could very well be the cause of an innocent getting punished. The thought of that made you sick.

Hunting was about to get terribly complicated, though. You knew it as soon as Gordon sat down where the Cowboy had been moments before, ignoring the bartender instead of telling her no thanks or waving her off. He was far too focused on this mystery job for your own liking. You could feel his eyes boring into your face as you continued to look at your own drink, pretending to be enveloped in the upbeat atmosphere so that you hadn’t noticed his arrival.

“We need to talk somewhere private, like a table,” he said, leaning in towards you as if he were some classified agent.

“Oh, come on Gordon. Have a little fun first, won’t you? You gotta talk a girl up before you order her around like that.”

You finally looked at him, winking, but his expression remained flat.

“This is important. Fate of the world important.”

He left the barstool for a table in the corner of the bar, back behind the occupied pool tables and the speakers, a perfect blanket of sound to cover your conversation. You spun around atop the slick seat of the barstool and then hopped off, snatching up your glass of scotch as you waltzed through the bar, attracting the attention of a few more cowboys and bad boys that you wouldn’t give a minute of your time to.

“Ok, spill it Gordon. I don’t have all night,” you said, sliding into a chair.

“Have you heard the name Sam Winchester?”

“Winchester, hmm?” You held your glass by the rim, tapping it with a single finger. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Should I know the name?”

“Sam and his brother Dean are big names in the hunter community. Nearly unstoppable.”

“Which I would know if I, y’know, actually kept in contact with the hunter community, which I don’t.”

“It’s not a bad idea to keep tabs on them. You learn a lot.”

“But that’s one thing we have in common, Gordon. Maybe the only thing. We’re outsiders.”

“That’s why I came to you about this. No one on the inside has what it takes to get this job done.”

“And what’s the job?” You took another sip of your scotch.

“Sam Winchester has become the king of hell. And you need to take him out.”

You nearly spit out your drink. “No shit? You’re kidding me right?”

Gordon shook his head and you laughed.

“How the hell does a hunter end up with that job?”

“It’s a complicated story. I won’t bore you with the details.”

“No, no,” you said, leaning over the table onto your arms, “I’m interested now. I want to hear it.”

Gordon ended up telling you everything he knew in his typical style, efficiently and unaffected by any sounds of astonishment that came from you. You ended up knowing the most essential details: that this man-raised-a-hunter, destined to be the embodiment of evil, was a big bad. A human turned demon by choice. Neither of you would bother with him if he were a routine demon ruling hell, but he had potential for much bigger, apocalyptic things. Once you learned that, your sense of urgency grew exponentially. Usually, you were one for feeling out a monster first—seeing how they lived and what made them tick—before you decided its fate, but this one held the fate of the world in his hands. You couldn’t afford to ask questions before shooting.

You did ask Gordon lots of questions, though. You weren’t going in there half-cocked.

“So, his brother, Dean, doesn’t talk to him anymore, basically hates his guts, but will try to stop me if I get too close? That’s a messed up family if I ever saw one, and I know messed up.” You pointed at your chest, falling into the back of your chair.

“The Winchesters aren’t known for their healthy family dynamics.”

“Hunters usually aren’t.”

“They’re a special case. Sam’s been ruling for four years now. He killed Azazel to give himself total control. He’s dangerous and Azazel’s protege. He’ll no doubt continue his work and he has an established regime now.”

“Why kill the hand that fed you? Doesn’t make any sense.”

“He’s unpredictable. He’s a demon. He doesn’t follow our rules.”

You tapped the table next to your glass, running your tongue over the top row of your teeth, thinking about your next move. Something wasn’t sitting right with you.

“And what happens if I say, pass on this?”

“You can’t. This is you repaying your debt to me. And I know you don’t shy away from a challenge,” he tempted, leaning over the table, “Help me spill the demon blood of Sam Winchester and purge the world of this monstrosity.”

With those lines, he gripped you tight and held you to the fire. You did owe him… big time.

He had been the one to get you out of a major bind years ago, one that had been your fault and had resulted in the death of the one and only true friend you’d ever had. Life just sucked like that, as you had learned over and over again. It had beaten you nearly to death with that lesson and losing Nadia had been your final class. With the close of that night, you graduated with honors, having learned that god decided you were to be given a load of shit no matter what you did with your life. So you stopped trying to make anything good out of it and just went on killing and beating your way through because that’s what you were good at. And Gordon, being the peachy ray of sunshine that he was, couldn’t find it in his heart to consider the deed a favor, but counted it as a debt, and you didn’t want to remain in his debt.

And as if that weren’t enough to persuade you, the prospect of being the hunter to hand over the body of the king of hell was tempting in the worst way. Your name would forever go down in history as the woman who had prevented the apocalypse, who had personally slit the throat of the most powerful evil being there was. You’d have to get into hell, know what killed him, and take care of his brother, but you’d have that all figured out in no time. Your life may have sucked royally, but you were great at your occupation, possibly one of the best, and there was no way you could fail. Plus, it was the ultimate middle finger to throw up at life.

You leaned back over the table, arms resting on top, your face now inches away from Gordon’s.

“Fine. You want his blood, you got it.”


	4. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam goes through the daily duties of the King, but trouble is brewing, and he is becoming increasingly worried about his ability to stop it.

Sam was perched atop the purple velvet cushion of his throne, a slight lean in his back, elbows on the armrests, hands clasped, looking every bit the image of a renaissance painting. He observed how his demons busied themselves throughout the throne room, walking in and out, across and around, babbling about hunters, carrying dusty scrolls and magic books. Their footwear tapped and scraped along the stone floors, mixing with the homogenous murmur of their voices. The great hall was almost always busy and never quiet. Even in silence, the lofty arched ceilings magnified even the softest of sounds, causing them to echo in the cool, damp air. Every action belonging to this room was exposed and enlarged by the acoustics, matching the weight of each decision Sam made. He carefully calculated each one, permitting nothing to be insignificant.

Sam spent much of his time in this room, but he indulged in the luxury of loneliness and the comfort of books in his suite when he could. He still read, still researched, even though his topics of choice these days were never for pleasure. These were a piece of his humanity that remained, habits that his demons never truly understood, but tolerated nonetheless. But today the opportunity for that luxury was sparse, if not nonexistent. His schedule was full of tending to reports and dealing with rebel demon activity, which could complicate the most routine jobs of Hell, and which had been doing so for the past few year.

His Hell Hound, Megaera, sat on the ground beside him, and he stroked the short, dark fur of his pet as he waited for the arrival of Ruby to report on the status of the seals.

These seals were part of a legend about which all demons knew. Lucifer was the demons’ creator, something akin to a father, who was destined to rise again from his unjust chains, trampling earth underfoot, defeating his brother Michael, and birthing the reign of demons on earth. It was nothing but a fanatic’s tale to Sam and most of his demons. He had silenced Azazel, and with him, most of Lucifer’s followers. But Sam had failed to silence Azazel’s protege, Lilith, the first demon. She hid in the shadows now, somehow beyond Sam’s reach, planting seeds of resistance and zeal in the minds of demons. He dealt with unpredictable rogues, demons who sided with the fallen angel and his firstborn. These rogues had broken many seals, and now Sam fought to prevent the breaking of all sixty-six. But he was failing more often that he had expected, or that he would prefer.

Ruby arrived flustered, her lips in a taut line and her straw blonde hair swishing fervently behind her back as she strutted through the large double doors, using both arms to swing them open. Sam smirked at the sight, taking his hand off the hound and straightening his back. He had always enjoyed Ruby’s tenacity, and he grew to appreciate her over the years. She was the demon who gave of herself to help make him king, and who stayed loyal through the uneasy beginning of his independent reign, after he killed Azazel. She had sway with the other demons as well, able to gather support for Sam and persuade demons of his legitimacy. Sam was thankful for these invaluable skills, grateful to have her at his right hand rather than Azazel, and she was satisfied with her position.

Their relationship had been more than professionally intimate at times as well, a result of the tie forged through sharing her blood. Her blood started his transformation and gave him the first high of power. At first, he thought of her fondly for her help and as nothing more than a tool, but eventually he wanted more from her. Drinking blood from the veins of another person was strangely intimate. She saw Sam at his most desperate and hungry lows, while his eyes were blown with confused lust. He saw her completely yielded as a sacrifice, blood trickling out of her arm as she laid, waiting for him. They had a unique relationship; the point of difference between blood-lust and physical lust muddied over time. Ruby gladly acquiesced to his physical advances, as she did with everything else he asked of her.

“Ruby, how are you? What’s the status?” Sam questioned as she approached his throne, bowing her head briefly.

“Samhain was risen, sir. We arrived too late.”

Sam was silent for a moment, his face falling into straight lines. This news was a disappointment, but not altogether surprising. However, broken seals was becoming common news to Sam and he couldn’t afford many more reports like this one. It was difficult to understand how one demon could be accomplishing so much under his radar. He had eyes and ears out everywhere, but they performed as if they were blind and deaf. For months, his demons had allowed Lilith to continually slip through his fingers like the black vapor of her incorporeal body. Anger burned in him quietly as he processed this information. He clutched the armrests tightly, his chest lifted with a sigh, but he didn’t lash out at Ruby. It wasn’t her fault, she was only the messenger.

“And Lilith?” he asked curtly.

“Still no sign of her, sir. We’re not even sure if she was directly involved in this one.”

“Check in with the other groups. Make sure this wasn’t a diversion.”

“Yes, sir.” She began to turn away.

“And Ruby?”

“Yes?”

“Make it quick. I need you back here tonight.”

“Of course, sir.” Ruby smirked before turning to go back out the door. Sam watched her leave, her hips swaying as she hurried out. The back and forth movement was either an accident or a purposeful taunt. Sam wasn’t sure which it was at the moment, or if it mattered.

Crowley entered as she exited, prepared for his daily report. Sam subsided his frustrations for the moment, knowing this news would be delivered without disappointments.

The short, Scottish crossroads demon kneeled before Sam’s throne until Sam uttered his name.

“Crowley.”

“Your majesty,” he responded as he stood up.

“What’s the report for the day?”

“We’ve got twenty new deals and five collected, sir.”

“And quality control?”

“All aspects of the deal were fully explained, sir. I checked each one. There’s no miscreants in my ranks.”

“Thank you, Crowley. Your reports are always the easiest. I know why they called you the King of The Crossroads.”

Crowley gave a humble smile, pleased with the compliment, but not taking his appreciation too far. “There’s only one king, sir.”

Sam nodded quickly with a grin. Crowley was one of his favorites, loyal to Sam and the quest to keep Lucifer in the cage. Crowley was an ambitious demon, and his motivations were mostly from self-interest. But The King of the Crossroads, as he had been known before Sam, was pragmatic and useful, so Sam maintained him and his operation despite Sam’s personal misgivings about demon deals. Sam proposed changes to the the deal-making process in the beginning, and Crowley agreed wholeheartedly, wanting his department to possess some well-deserved legitimacy. They both appreciated a deal well-made. It was agreed that deals were only to be made with adults and those adults were to have the terms and conditions fully explained: ten years and then their soul resided in Hell. There was no sugarcoating or concealing the grizzly details. Previous deals made with minors were also abolished. So far, the numbers on deals had lessened, but the payoff of not having people try to escape them was a relief. The whole operation was running smoother than ever before.

Next on the list of reports was Alistair’s, the artist with a canvas of souls, Picasso with a knife, as he liked to call himself. He and Sam had an agreeable and beneficial arrangement as well. He allowed Alistair to unleash his most horrific and gruesome torture on those souls who deserved it. Alistair’s position as grand inquisitor and torturer was priceless. He produced the bone-chilling, stomach-clenching fear of Hell, the place from which Sam could draw the force of his threats.

After running through the formalities and the numbers, reporting on new residents and allotted punishments, Alistair presented Sam with the background of a new addition that warranted special treatment. Sam was to know of each soul like this that entered his domain, souls who either presented morally gray situations or who had led particularly heinous lives deserving of the most elaborate of Alistair’s methods. This particular man was one of the latter.

He grew up comfortably in a gated community, possessing more than he needed, provided for by his hard-working parents. His family was loving, but not without their own issues common to families. He was intelligent, healthy, and well-liked by his peers. However, his materialistic status poisoned his mind with arrogance and pride. He believed himself to be more influential and important than he was. He developed a need for control, an inflated but fragile ego, and an elitist attitude that manifested itself in the harassment of women. It started with small gestures: unwanted glances, comments, and light touches. When, however, he realised no one had any intention of stopping him, his behavior escalated. A small spark of hatred burned inside him, and each rejection from a woman he desired fanned the flames into an uncontrollable inferno that resulted in the rape of multiple women throughout his life. One unfortunate soul who found herself on the receiving end of his unwanted affection wound up in the morgue, having fought back too much. He’d told her she had to learn her place, tried breaking her will, but broke her body in the process.

He never received punishment during his forty-five years of life. As a young adult, he was banned from a sports team for sexual harassment claims against him, but he eventually learned how to threaten women so they wouldn’t talk, or he drugged them so they couldn’t remember his face. Either way, he learned to cover his tracks and was never suspected of his crimes. Today, he died in a car accident that wasn’t his fault. Hit head on by a drunk driver, who happened to survive.

Sam decided that the man’s sentence would be eternal retribution. He would have to experience the pain of each woman he harmed, separately and for an adequate amount of time so the reality he inflicted on these women would settle deep within his soul. Alistair would, of course, add physical torture to his punishment, paying special attention to the parts of him that had been used to abuse women. He existed as a man with no reason to be so heinous except for personal pleasure, a man who enjoyed ruining the lives of others, and who wanted to control for the sake of itself. The mere thought of the man was offensive to Sam.

There were a few other special cases that day, as well as the cut-and-dry Hell arrivals that would receive the routine punishment. Each soul received the exact punishment they deserved, nothing more and certainly nothing less. Sam had decided from the beginning that his reign was one of justice and retribution, not of evil and chaos. Justice was the purpose of Hell after all, a dumping ground of the earth’s most horrible humans, as well as the ones who agreed to their fate through deals, and the King’s job was to ensure that Hell retained its mission and the appropriate image in everything it did.

The last major event of the day happened when Ruby returned once again, earlier than expected, but dragging a protesting demon behind her. Sam watched with curious eyes as demons cleared the hall and guards helped her subdue the man with a couple swift punches to his ribs. They held tightly onto his arms, forcing him to face his king so that he could be questioned.

“Ruby, why did you bring this demon to me?” Sam asked. The demon watched Ruby with fear in his eyes. Something else flickered behind them. Hatred, maybe.

Ruby paid little attention to him as she explained his crimes. “He’s a rogue. Caught him in cohorts with the witches who raised Samhain. He was feeding them information and supplies.”

“And why would he do such a reckless thing?” Sam questioned the traitor now, his voice sharp, his eyes keeping uncomfortable contact with the demon’s.

The demon straightened up and tensed his jaw, his face darkening as he realized his fate. Sam could see him clinging deeper to his purpose, see his chest inflate with stupid bravery. “Long live Lucifer, the rightful king of Hell,” the demon spat.

Sam’s chilling laugh filled the chamber and Ruby stood with her arms crossed, looking pleased at her capture and Sam’s response.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Sam said, “Those words are as useless as your service has been.” Then he looked to the two demons holding him. “Take him to Alistair. I want him placed on the specialty rack and kept there a long time before he’s finally sent to purgatory to rot.”

The demon threw out desperate last words as he was carried away, shouting like an unruly child while being drug out of the hall. “Your throne is going to fall, Winchester!”

“Stop!” Sam ordered. He could feel Megaera stand guard next to him, her low growls rumbling the air by his feet. He put a hand out, telling her to wait. Sam had heard those threats many times. They entered his ears as nothing more than trite insults.

His guards turned the demon back around and all traces of boldness left his quivering body. He seemed to understand what was coming. Sam stood and stretched out his arm, his palm extended towards the demon. As he squeezed his hand into a fist, the rebel began violently convulsing, black smoke expelling from his mouth, his eyes watering as he choked on himself. Sam continued this until he was almost dead, then Sam severed his vocal chords with a sleight of hand. Sam waved them off, and the guards carried the now mute demon out of the hall.

Once the obnoxious distraction was removed, Sam relaxed back in his chair, rubbing his forehead and petting Megaera as he considered his next move. He could send troops out to fight against those breaking the seals or dispatch demons inside his kingdom to weed out active traitors. Hell did not have unlimited amounts of demons, though, and he couldn’t be everywhere at once.

Sam could call on Dean for aid, if he weren’t in a near-constant state of pretending that Sam had died at the hands of Azazel five years ago. Dean would prove invaluable to Sam’s apocalypse prevention. Hunters could stop some of the seals from breaking, and Sam’s job would be made much easier. However, Dean acknowledged Sam’s existence only when he was invited to Sam’s home and then, once he was face-to-face with Sam, spent his time being both inwardly disgusted and outwardly tense.

Perhaps it was time for Sam to call on him again and tell him the truth about the Apocalypse. Dean might want to know about the threat of the world ending, and that his own death and resurrection had set the whole operation in motion. Sam had kept that detail purposely hidden, not wanting to burden Dean with that knowledge unless it was absolutely necessary. The time for that revelation appeared to be approaching faster than Sam wanted, though.

Ruby approached Sam, having come back to the hall after helping take care of the rogue. She stepped onto his throne platform quietly, stopping just to the side of him so that she could place her hand on his shoulder. His head nodded up when he felt her touch. He turned his head towards her, picking up her hand and pulling it towards his lips.

“My strategy isn’t working. These seals shouldn’t be breaking. I’ve got so many scouts out, so many demons working for my cause, but I need intel on Lilith. She’s gathering supporters and I have no idea how. I don’t know her next move, her next-”

“Shhh,” Ruby placed a single finger on Sam’s lips, walking around the chair until she was in front of him, then continuing on with her interruption as she lowered herself onto his lap. “Look, Lilith is just a whiny bitch trying to be a bad bitch. She’s got nothing on you.” Ruby ran her hand down the side of Sam’s face, tucking some hair behind his ear. “Your plan is perfect. She’s flash and show. You’re darkness,” she kissed one side of his mouth, “and power,” she kissed the other. “Lilith doesn’t stand a chance.”

Sam’s hands floated unconsciously onto Ruby’s thighs, her tantalizing effect on him flooding his senses as usual. She was irresistible. He squeezed her thighs as he kissed her on the mouth.

“I should be focusing on more important issues, but you’re distracting me,” he murmured over her lips.

“You need some distraction. You’re always tense.”

Sam couldn’t deny this, and he couldn’t deny her. He went all in, and they barely held back from each other, their hands and mouths roaming freely about each other’s bodies. They usually weren’t so open with their relationship. The court knew, or rather whispered about it in the halls, but showing themselves to be actively involved might cause some of his followers to doubt him, to think that Ruby was exerting influence on their king. However, after the apocalypse threat was over, Sam could consider Ruby in other ways. But for now, they resolved to heavy petting sessions in the conveniently emptied throne room. That was one of the perks of being a revered king: some commands didn’t have to be uttered.


	5. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding Sam Winchester has been a struggle, but tonight, you might have a breakthrough in your case.

You were supposed to have had this job done by now. Your meeting with Gordon happened exactly one year ago today, and you had worked hard to find Sam since then. But karma was a bitch and she never repaid you rightly. So here you were, alone, led to an upscale bar in downtown whatever by more bad information, drinking away your problems and distracting yourself from all your failures.

That distraction didn’t come easy.

All of your efforts thus far had proven futile. You hadn’t located the King of Hell, let alone gotten close enough to murder him, and you weren’t receiving many leads either. You did possess a weapon that might kill him, an angel blade procured for a steep price from a collector by the name of Bela Talbot. You had no clue how she came by the weapon and you didn’t ask. You had larger concerns at the time, like zeroing in on the King’s location.

Part of your problem was that Sam Winchester’s demon ranks were too damn good. Anytime you closed in on an entrance to Hell, something stopped you. A reaper wouldn’t let you in or your demon hostage wouldn’t give you the right information. Sam had a tight hold on everyone involved in Hell; control like you’d never seen. It told you a lot about his personality–narcissistic and controlling with a superiority complex. Basically, an all-around grade-a dick.

But as powerful as this Winchester was, none of the demons you encountered had thought to kill you. Why would a King who had such tight ranks and watchful guards not want a hunter like you dead? Maybe you had been lucky enough to escape his notice so far, or maybe he was letting you go.

You had also killed every demon you interrogated; there was no one left to tip him off anyway.

Silencing wasn’t your goal, though. You’d actually prefer if Sam knew about your hunt. You saw no point in trying to conceal your plans. At the end of the day, you wanted an honest, clean fight with the man who had proven to be a worthy opponent; no cliché monologues and explanations. You didn’t care who knew about your hunt. Let them all know–every hunter, demon, and angel–and let them all wish they could have your victory, the spilled blood of the demon king! 

That vision was so raw and tangible months ago. Now it was worn like a photograph, faded around the edges and kept in your back pocket. Instead of constant images of victory pumping adrenaline into your blood, you ruminated about every failure, every person who had wronged you–your father, your grandparents–and those memories fueled your rage. People like your dad ended up in Hell and became demons. People like Sam allowed it. Sam chose to allow it; he was worse than all demons and deserved every bit of pain coming with his death. You would make sure of it, when you eventually found him.

Gordon would make sure of that. He was breathing down your neck constantly. He couldn’t do much from behind bars, though. He ran into Dean Winchester four months ago and managed to get arrested. Now he had a contact, Kubrick, who kept in touch with you. As annoying as Gordon’s obsessive behavior was, though, you had the same end goal and you didn’t want to be in his debt anymore. The monitoring was manageable.

Your focus for the last few weeks had been locating Dean Winchester. Gordon had warned you about his irrational relationship with his brother, that he would go to any lengths to save him, but you were going to take your chances. You might be able to persuade him to help you, or at least con him into spilling some information about how to kill his brother. You weren’t above physical pleasures in exchange for information. You’d asked around about him and found out plenty, namely that his two favorite things besides Sam were booze and women. You could offer both of those and then be on your merry way.

However, the elder Winchester proved to live as far off the grid as his brother, and he had his own group of loyalists that would rather spill their blood than information. You had their names: Bobby Singer, and Ellen and Jo Harvelle, but you wouldn’t dare approach them. Other hunters warned you about that. Other hunters also gave you outdated cell phone numbers, motel rooms that were a couple weeks old, and cases that had long been solved. Dean Winchester never seemed to stop moving around and dumping phones. He did this more often than any other hunter you knew. You couldn’t catch up with him.

Your drink was empty again, so you got up from your table to wander over to the bar, weaving in and out of people. You wanted at least one more scotch before you called it a night. Right before you reached the counter, the brightest shade of green eyes you’d ever seen caught your eyes as he walked up to the bar and sat down. You froze mid-walk and did a double take. You couldn’t believe what you were witnessing.

You slipped out of the crowd, forgetting your scotch for now, and sinking back into a partially occupied corner to slide a picture out of your back pocket, one given to you by Gordon. A couple comparisons between it and the man who just walked in and you knew. That was Dean Winchester.

Maybe things were starting to turn around.

You returned the picture to your pocket and shifted into your one-night-stand persona–chest out, eyelashes batted–and determined not to leave empty handed tonight. Dean wouldn’t know what hit him.

You played your approach perfectly, sliding onto a barstool that gave you one empty space between yourself and Dean. You ordered what you guessed he was drinking, whiskey. He noticed you, the way your jeans hugged your hips, the way your t-shirt came up enough to show a sliver of hip bone, the smooth curves of your muscular arms flexing as you sipped your drink and pretended to be thinking about something else, tapping the edge of the laminated wood bar.

All it took was once accidental look, an almost-interested attitude from you, and you saw his whole demeanor shift. The eye-contact gave him real purpose for the night. Maybe he decided drinking away his problems was focusing on them too much. Focusing on you might actually provide a decent distraction.

He looked over at you one more time to make sure and delivered his opening line.

“Downtown bars, huh? They’re just not the same as dives.” He was observant, you’d give him that. He already knew you didn’t fit in here. You were an on-the-road type of woman. Nothing fancy. Nothing urban. With the way he was catching on to you, you might have to try harder to conceal your intentions.

You smiled like a single woman and dropped your head down to giggle. “I take it you’re not from around here either?” You side-eyed him, glancing over before taking another drink.

“Far from it.”

Now it was your turn to be forward. You turned in your seat to face him. “Where you from?”

“Oh, here and there. Nowhere in particular.”

“Me too,” you grinned.

That was all it took to reel him in and get him to leave the bar with you. You made a plan for a night of intimate activities, picking up some more booze and then heading back to his motel room. Your plan was moving along perfectly.

An hour later, you were fumbling in the dark of Dean’s motel room, only a single lamp on, having consumed enough liquor to make even your head spin. Dean’s fingers were all over you–your shoulders, your hips, your breasts–anxious, but careful. He knew what he was doing, knew every sensitive spot on a woman to touch; if you hadn’t been there for information, you might have actually enjoyed this.

His kisses were sloppy, and you could taste the night’s alcohol on his tongue as he pushed further in. You moved backwards with him until your knees hit the bed and almost buckled, jarring you awake from the physical fantasy.

You trailed your mouth up from his lips, across his jaw to his ear, and whispered, “I bet you’re every bit of the man I’ve heard you to be.”

He growled low in his throat, kissing you deeply as his hands found the hem of your shirt and pulled up. He tossed the shirt aside carelessly and then dove back to your breasts, kissing and kneading. You leaned back and lowered yourself onto the bed, and he followed willingly, never letting his hands or mouth leave you.

You needed to work him a little more, get him talking, just a slip of information while he was distracted. While he worked at your mouth, you began to unbutton your own pants, kissing him harder, losing your breath. His hips fell onto you, pushing against you, and you broke the kiss, panting. “I’ve heard so many things about you and your brother…”

This time Dean grunted disapprovingly and resumed the kissing without any reply, focusing on pushing your pants down your legs. He pushed them down to your thighs, and then you watched as he took his mouth down your body, stopping at your belly, and standing to pull the jeans completely off. His eyes were dark and lust-blown, making you shiver as you met them. God, you wished tonight wasn’t about business.

The pants were tossed aside, and Dean’s eyes followed them. He did a double take, almost focusing on you again until his eyes met something on the floor.

“What the hell?” he mumbled.

He bent over to pick something up, and your stomach dropped.

“What the hell is this?” He was shouting now, holding the picture of himself up in the air, shaking it at you. It had fallen out of your back pocket and onto the floor.

“Like I said, I’ve heard lots about you. Had to see the man for myself,” you cooed, reaching a hand out for him, trying to pull him back in. But there was a fire growing in his drunken eyes. You’d lost him.

He turned towards you and got in your face. “Who are you and why are you following me?” His mouth was so close to yours again, but laced with anger instead of lust.

“I’m nobody. Just a curious hunter.”

“I ain’t a fool. Why do you have a picture of me and why were you talking about my brother?”

You sighed and dropped your shoulders before rolling away from him and off the bed. “I’m trying to find him.”

There was a beat of silence.

“And why would you want to do that?”

Your back was turned to him as you collected your clothing.

“To kill him. He’s the king of Hell, why else?” You turned around, expecting the air to become tense, but it didn’t. Dean’s countenance fell, as if he were giving up on something.

“Good luck finding him.” He walked back over to the bottle of liquor sitting on the kitchen table. “He doesn’t want to be found. You only see him when he calls.”

“Wow. Gordon made it sound like you were going to choke the life out of me the second I mentioned wanting to harm your precious baby brother.” You chuckled, slipping your pants back on. Maybe Sam and Dean weren’t so codependent after all.

Dean slammed the bottle on the table. “Gordon? That psychopath? What in the hell are you doing talking to him about Sammy?” He stormed back over, towering over you.

“None of your business.” You glared into his eyes, mouth shut tight, until he backed down. “I’m leaving. It doesn’t look like you have any useful information for me anyway.” You put your shirt on and glanced up at Dean. He opened his mouth, then shut it.

“Or maybe you do?”

“I’m not telling you a thing,” he spat.

“Fine by me.” You rolled your eyes, recognizing the irrational loyalty to the demon brother that finally decided to show up. “Like I said, I’ll be leaving now. I won’t bother you again.”

You slipped on your boots and walked to the door. He added one last comment as your foot hit the threshold.

“If I hear you’ve done anything to him, I’ll kill you.”

“Right.” You turned your head towards him and winked, then slammed the door.

If he were going to stop you, he already would have.


	6. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean debates what to do about you and Sam. Sam debates what to do about the Apocalypse.

The sound of the door slamming reverberated in Dean’s ears, beating against his eardrums. He shut his eyes tight and turned his face away from the door.

Y/N’s whole visit had been abrasive to his senses. She was tough to the core, hunter’s hands and muscles, complete with the reckless attitude that killed most of them. He could see it all over her from the moment she sat by him at the bar. He thought her blatant civilian facade had been a ruse to get a man to come home with her. Not many would do so otherwise, he imagined, cowering under the weight of her presence. People moved out of her way while she walked across the bar to her seat.

He never dreamed she would bring up Sam. Never in a million years thought she would be hunting him.

He added stupid to the list of things he thought she was, right next to terrifyingly beautiful and overly cynical.

With the motel room quiet once more, he fell into the nearest cushioned chair, too exhausted to make it to his bed. Alcohol was one way he preoccupied his mind; sleep was another. But sleep didn’t come easily tonight. Y/N had brought memories to the surface by mentioning a name.

Sam.

Dean’s relationship with Sam had been nearly nonexistent. He’d visited him once, maybe twice a year since 2007. That added up to a total of seven or eight visits in five years, and none of them contained enough brotherly affection to warrant a change of heart in Dean. He loved Sam and always would. There were memories he could never forget, like the kid watching him set off fireworks or work on dad’s car, but Dean had to face the reality of what Sam had become. Those savored memories were trapped inside a shell of Sam, never to be brought to full clarity again. It was the same Sam who resided down below. He wasn’t possessed. He wasn’t a demon in the traditional sense. But he wasn’t human either. Sam Winchester, Dean’s little brother and badass hunter, was gone. 

Sam explained the change to Dean the best he could, but Sam didn’t know the extent of what he was. This was the first time a human had fused with demon blood and became neither human nor demon, but retained parts of each.

As terrifying as that notion was to Dean and most hunters, Sam didn’t get in Dean’s way, and neither did his demons. They continued being demons, but weren’t allowed to wreak havoc for the hell of it. Sam never did like chaos and so he ordered his kingdom in that fashion. There were codes and rules and guidelines and expectations. Demons, monsters, and spirits were still a problem as usual, and hunters died at the hands of many of them, but there was no war on the hunting community. With Sam’s knowledge as a hunter, Dean was sure they’d be the first to go. Sam all but ignored them, allowing them to carry on as usual.

But if a demon ever did get too close to Dean, they paid for it severely. That happened one time and one time only. Unfortunately for Dean, it was more than a scratch on his arm or a cut on his leg.

He died.

Dean dreamt about that, years later, especially when thoughts of Sam were running loose in his mind, taking over his waking and sleeping thoughts like they were now. As he sat slumped in the chair, waiting for sleep to come, the memories drifted to the surface and tainted his thoughts once again.

Months into losing his brother, Dean was the most desperate he’d ever been. Guilt ate at his insides like maggots gnawing on decaying wood, leaving holes in the once renowned hunter. He hunted little, drank a lot, and threw what was left of himself into a vow to save his brother.

This desperation and emptiness caused him to make a deal with a demon by the name of Hillevi.

She was a delicate, sweet-looking thing, a vision of blonde ringlets and rosy cheeks. She came to him in the middle of the night, moonlight reflecting off her hair and bright eyes when he opened his door. He thought a young girl had wandered to his room, needing help to find her parents, but her eyes inked over, revealing her identity. Dean scrambled to find either the knife or Colt, only to remember that Sam had them both. She floated in, ignoring his outburst and closing the door quietly. She approached him like a tender lover, whispering tempting words into his ears that immediately dug his grave.

_“I can help you save your brother.”_

She seduced Dean with hope, making him imagine a human Sam, raised from Hell, saved by a powerful being she didn’t describe, but named Lilith. A picture of hope herself, a beacon of light and purity, she was impossible to resist. She tricked him. As soon as their kiss sealed the deal, her eyes turned black again, and she cackled into the cold night. He felt the mistake in his bones, but there was nothing he could do. The deal had been an immediate exchange.

Dean awoke inside his grave three months later. Sam was still king. He remembered everything from Hell. He endured thirty years of torture and spent ten inflicting it, and he could recall every damn detail. He didn’t know how he was raised. He and Bobby couldn’t figure it out, the handprint on his arm the only clue.

Sam called for Dean shortly after that, ushering him back to Hell to apologize and provide some sort of brotherly care. Sam was livid about the deal, telling Dean how he found the demon responsible and made her break the contract on Dean’s soul. An angel had then raised him. He assured Dean that both the demon who made the deal and the one who tortured him were severely and eternally punished for their crimes against Sam’s direct orders. They would never see the light of day, or Hell, again. Others had conspired to hide his soul in Hell as well; Sam didn’t know Dean was on the racks until two months in.

Each one of the conspirators was personally killed by Sam. The demon in charge of torture had been replaced by another named Alistair.

Despite the elaborate apology and thoroughness of Sam’s punishment, Dean left that day bearing the weight of his years in Hell. He managed a curt thanks, but his gratitude was hollow. He wanted to flee, to be as far away from Hell as he could, even if that meant staying away from Sam. He was stupid for making that deal. He didn’t need a king rubbing it in his face.

Dean eventually shoved the memories down and accepted that Sam would remain king. There was no deal Dean could make, no power that could undo the effects of the demon blood. Dean was helpless to save Sam.

But now there was another option. Maybe. The hunter pursuing Sam.

The question was whether to contact Sam and let him deal with it, stop the woman himself, or to stay out of the matter entirely.

He ended that night passing out on the chair not having made any decision at all except that he was leaving for Bobby’s in the morning. He was the last man Dean could trust to help him make a rational decision and the last bit of family he had left.

* * *

Sam retired to his room after his last meeting with Ruby, needing a quiet place to think. He rested at his desk, legs spread wide and back leaning against a chair, eyes closed. He sat up. He couldn’t get comfortable.

His plans were failing. Despite Ruby’s flattery and distraction, her words did not persuade him of any victory.

He had a decision to make, and none of the options appealed to him.

He could continue with his current plans, hoping something would change, that his demons would come through, but this was unlikely. He could call a meeting of strategists and completely reorganize his efforts, but there was no clear strategy he could envision. There was one more option. He could call on Dean for help.

But inviting Dean to Hell would place further strain on their relationship. Sam would have to explain the Apocalypse and Dean’s role in starting it. He could only imagine the amount of hurt and guilt that would be placed on Dean should he find out that he broke the first seal. Sam might get no help from him, or any hunters.

But he needed that help. He needed Dean.

Sam could not make this decision alone. The effects would ripple into all extremities of Hell. His kingdom may lose trust in him; more demons may switch sides.

He called for his advisors. Perhaps they could give him a new perspective, or at least support him in an alliance with hunters. Ruby, Crowley, and Meg entered his chambers shortly after.

Meg was an unusual choice for Sam’s inner circle. Both Crowley and Ruby had mentioned this to him multiple times, but he trusted her despite her history. Trained to believe in the legend of Lucifer, she blindly followed Azazel, helping lead Sam to him. She continued on that path until Sam made more convincing arguments for his reign. They had developed a unique bond that made them almost-friends, and she wasn’t preparing to take Lilith’s side and break seals, so he gave her the benefit of the doubt and valued her opinion.

When they entered the room, Ruby walked around Meg and plopped down onto Sam’s bed. Crowley and Meg said their usual respectful greetings, but Ruby said nothing. Meg glared at Ruby as she relaxed onto Sam’s comforter, propping herself up on one hand. Crowley stepped to the side and waited for Sam to talk. Ruby kept her eyes on Sam, but there was a playful light in them.

“I’ve been considering the state of the seals lately,” Sam began, ignoring Ruby’s attitude, “As you all know, the results of our efforts have not been as good as I would like, but I think we can turn it around. After considering many options, I have an idea. I propose we call Dean here and explain the issues to him and ask for his help. I think that his desire for the world to be saved will outweigh any negative feelings he still holds against me.”

Ruby straightened up, pursing her lips. “Oh yes, let’s bring the enemy into our home! And while we’re at it, let them sleep in our bed! We don’t need them, Sam. I thought we had agreed our plan would work.”

“We didn’t agree,” Sam snapped back, “You said your opinion and I thought about it. Thank you for your complete confidence in me, but we have to face reality. Seals are breaking and Lilith is getting closer to sixty-six as we speak, while I haven’t heard a single word about her whereabouts in weeks!”

“But bringing in hunters? You’re risking a lot.”

Meg interrupted, pointing her response at Ruby. “I think the king can do whatever he wants and doesn’t need a dirty skank giving him advice.”

Ruby scoffed. “Why don’t you stop pretending to be a good little subject and go run off with Lilith like we all know you want to.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Ruby pierced Meg with black, dagger eyes, but before either of them could bite back, Crowley interrupted. “You two sound like a cackle of geese. Perhaps this conversation should be done without personal drama? It’s rather boring. I do believe the _King_ would prefer that.”

“Thank you, Crowley. I agree. Let’s focus on why I asked you all to come here.” Sam paid special attention to Ruby, watching should she step over the line again. “What do you have to say about this, since you seem to be the most-level headed at the moment?”

Crowley thought on it a moment, carefully choosing his response. “Bringing in the help of hunters adds extra forces. That’s a very useful and powerful group of people that have every reason to want to save their earth,” Crowley said, “There are issues, yes, but using them will free your hands up from some of the groundwork so you can focus on Lilith.”

Sam nodded in acknowledgment, then looked to Meg. “And you, Meg? What do you have to say about this?”

“Using Dean is smart, Miss White Eyes won’t see it coming. But how’s everyone down here going to feel about it? Some demons might get a little rowdy and start jumping the fence.”

“You talking about yourself?” Ruby scoffed.

“Ruby. Enough,” Sam ordered. “I asked for counsel, not drama. Control your tongue or I’ll have you removed from the room.”

Ruby’s lips pulled into angered lines, all of her jealousy and spite ready to fly out, but Sam stood his ground. Ruby took a minute to respond, but eventually realized it was best to back down. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. Now, here’s my proposal. I meet with Dean in private. There’s no need to upset the masses for something that may not even happen. His agreement isn’t guaranteed. I see what he’s willing to do and then go from there. If he agrees, then we think about whether this agreement should be made public or not. I can handle some doubt. Stopping the apocalypse is more important.”

“If that is your decision, I’m sure we’ll _all_ be more than glad to support it,” Crowley responded, looking at Ruby as he spoke. “Tell us what we need to do and it will be done.”

“Ditto,” Meg said.

Ruby stood from the bed. “I don’t like this idea, but since you’re the big boy around here, I guess I’ll go along with it, no matter how suicidal it is.”

This was as close to unanimous as Sam was going to get. Personal drama would have to be ignored. The Apocalypse was looming, and a pivotal moment in his and Dean’s relationship was about to happen. Sam could not afford to make everyone happy.


	7. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean visits Bobby and gets a surprise contact from Sam. You receive a dreaded call from Gordon and have to decide where to take your hunt next.

The next morning, at exactly six twenty-two, before the beaming morning sun had a chance to pierce your eyes, a shrill ringtone came from your cell phone and jolted you awake. After you gathered your wits, you slapped your hand onto the bedside table and fumbled around until your fingers met the blaring device. You lifted your hand, preparing to throw it across the room until you saw the caller I.D. You groaned, remembering why you had picked this annoying ringtone for this particular caller.

You answered and put it up to your ear. “What the hell do you want, Kubrick?”

He huffed on the other line. “Good morning to you, too. I wanted to let you know I visited Gordon yesterday. We’ve both been anxious to hear from you. We haven’t talked to you in, what, two months now?”

You rolled your eyes. You hated these check-in calls and avoided them at all costs, and when you had to participate, you got them over with quickly. “Tell Gordon he’ll be happy to know I made contact with Dean Winchester last night. Goodbye.”

You pulled the phone away from your ear, but heard Kubrick’s voice coming through the speaker still.

“Ah! Not so fast. That sounds like great news! Maybe we’re finally getting some of God’s favor with this. Gordon will want to hear about this personally. You should visit him today.”

“Could you shut up about divine intervention for five seconds? Not everything is a damn gift from god. Look, I’m a day’s drive from Gordon. I’m not going to make it to visiting hours. Besides, do you want me to lose Dean?”

Kubrick ignored your request as usual and further pushed the issue. “Maybe if you had some faith, we might be further along. Lucky for you, I’m still in town. I’ll have him call you sometime today.”

You didn’t necessarily want to talk to Gordon, but a phone call was better than a visit. “Just peachy. Bye, Kubrick.” You pressed the end call button before he had a chance to say anything else.

You dropped your phone into the mass of comforter and sheets and groaned as you rolled out of bed. Being hounded and insulted by Gordon was exactly what you needed. He wouldn’t appreciate the fact that you hadn’t gotten any real information from Dean last night. But what did he expect you to do? People were difficult to crack, especially when family was involved, and this family was more twisted than most. He’d have to be happy with the progress you did make and trust you to finish this job. He couldn’t do anything from behind bars anyway, so he had no real leverage.

You dressed and managed to grab some breakfast–weak coffee and a stale bagel–before Gordon called. You’d just made it back to your room and sat at the table when the phone rang a second time that morning.

You answered the phone with a mouthful of bagel. “Hey Gordon. How’s inmate life?”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

You smiled at the irritation in his voice. “Hilarious.”

Gordon cut right to the chase. “Kubrick told me you located Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah, I did.”

You heard static on the other line, like Gordon was itching in his seat and shifting around, but his voice revealed no emotion. “What did you find out from him?”

You clicked your tongue, tapped the table with your free fingers, shifted in your own seat. “Oh… not much. Dean’s as protective of Sam as we thought. But I think I can change his mind. He’s conflicted.” You hoped that would be enough.

Gordon didn’t respond right away. There was complete silence from his end, but you didn’t have to hear the anger to know that his hand was tighter around the phone and his eyes had a glare that could kill.

“You have no leads on Sam,” he said.

“No I-”

“I thought you were going to complete this job much sooner than this.”

You knew Gordon would be an asshole, but knowing what to expect didn’t make the insult any less annoying. You gritted your teeth and held back expletives, opting for the deeper hit on him instead. “Maybe if you hadn’t gotten yourself arrested, you could be out here helping me.”

“Maybe you should let Kubrick help you more,” he sneered. “Then you could cover more ground.”

You smirked at the anger in his voice and laughed at his suggestion. “Not gonna happen. I’d sooner slit his throat than Sam’s. He drives me up a wall and we both know he’d screw things up more.”

“Then you need to step up your game,” he bit back. “Kubrick tells me there’s been more demon activity lately and some seals have been broken. We need a lead.”

Gordon really knew how to strike a nerve. Normally, you wouldn’t snap back, but you’d had a rough night. Your patience was thin. “I can’t pull one out of my ass! What do you think I’ve been doing this whole year? None of Sam’s demons will talk, neither will the reapers. Give me another night with Dean and I’ll have something.”

“You haven’t found the right person yet who will talk, or you haven’t been using the right methods!” Gordon rambled off his usual spiel, then stopped mid-thought. “Or…you should try someone else. I think we’ve overlooked an important resource at our disposal.”

You didn’t like the pensive sound of his voice. When Gordon schemed, things got dangerous. “Uuuuh huh. Let me guess, a new torture method?” You rolled your eyes.

“Bobby Singer.”

You heart dropped at his name.

“If you can get him to talk,” he continued, “or at least search his house, we could get somewhere.”

“No. No! I’m not breaking into some guy’s home! That’s not what I do.”

“You do want Sam Winchester dead, don’t you?”

You knew Gordon was manipulating you, but he had a convincing point. “Yes but-”

“Then you will do whatever it takes. Set aside your pathetic moral code for the sake of the greater good, and when you’re done, you can go back to being the tainted hunter with a heart of gold.”

You clenched your fist, wanting nothing more than to reach across the phone and throttle him and his stupid mocking tone. But that wouldn’t help your case. And that wouldn’t catch Sam. Bobby probably was the next best source of information, and if you didn’t go to him, Gordon would send Kubrick. And that wouldn’t end well for anyone.

“Fine. I’ll see if Dean’s still in town first though. If not, I’ll go. But if I get killed by this guy, I’m haunting your ass. I heard he’s near perfect with a shotgun. Not the way I wanna go.”

“Good.” Gordon smiled through the phone, and it creeped you out. “I still have some faith in you despite your failures. See what happens at Bobby’s, then report back to me.”

“Don’t I always? Enjoy the rest of your prison sentence.”

You hung up and slammed the phone on the table. You got up from the chair. It flew back, sliding across the floor, but you didn’t care. _I still have some faith in you, my ass!_ Gordon was itching to call you off the job and replace you with some other hunter who would do things his way, but you would be damned if you let that happen. This was your job. Your hunt. Your win. Gordon would just have to wait patiently behind bars while you proved him wrong.

You threw your things back into your bag, grabbed your phone, and left the room.

Dean Winchester better still be at his motel, you thought as you sped out of the parking lot, anxious to get this over with and get your next lead on Sam.

* * *

When Dean pulled up to Bobby’s house later the next day, he didn’t expect fanfare or a memorable welcome. He threw his bag over his shoulder and shuffled up onto the dirty porch, walking around some boxes blocking the stairs and knocking on the door with a heavy, slow hand.

The door opened almost instantly and Bobby stood on the other side, half relieved and half peeved. He looked the same as the last time Dean had seen him. His beard was full, his hat greasy, and his clothes covered in a mixture of automobile and hunting filth. Dean barely took a step inside, and Bobby pulled him into a fatherly bear hug, squeezing the air out of his lungs and awkwardly pushing Dean’s bag against his leg.

Dean patted Bobby on the back and spoke into his shoulder, chuckling. “I’m alive!”

“I wouldn’t know by the calls I get,” Bobby grumbled, letting go of Dean.

Dean shrugged him off and turned towards the stairs, wanting to put his things upstairs and crash after his sleepless night.

“Hey,” Bobby called after him. Dean turned back to look at him. “Not that I’m not glad you’re here, but is there something going on that I should know about?”

“Nah, just passin’ through. Thought I’d rest up a couple days.” Dean walked away as he spoke, avoiding the problems that nagged him for now.

Bobby didn’t press him about it any further, at least vocally. He was sure the old man’s face was suspicious and grumpy, but Dean knew better than to engage him in that moment. He’d draw the truth out Dean whether he liked it or not.

Dean threw his bag into his usual room and fell onto the bed. Dust flew up and the mattress creaked, but Dean sighed contentedly. It felt like home in a way no other place did. Bobby’s home was the last place where he could truly rest. But the peace couldn’t last forever.

Bobby called up the stairs right after Dean closed his eyes. “Hey, I’ve got some beers down here if you want any!”

Dean rolled off the bed with a huff. He wasn’t able to resist a lazy afternoon with a cold beer and Bobby knew it. He met Bobby downstairs in the living room, sitting down on the couch after Bobby cleared a spot. The house was in disarray as always, but it seemed especially neglected now.

“Sorry about the living conditions. I’ve been riding the old bachelor train for awhile now,” Bobby said as he relaxed into his chair.

Dean kicked his legs up on the table, finding a small space between a stack of books and takeout trash. “I keep telling you, you need to hire someone to clean this place up for you.”

“The hell I do!” Bobby said, eliciting a laugh from Dean. “I may be old, but I’m not decrepit.”

“Well that’s up for debate-” Dean stopped mid-sentence, hearing a noise from the front door. Bobby heard it, too. It was the metal of the mail slot creaking open and shut.

Neither man said anything to each other, years of hunting ingraining standard intruder protocol in both of them. Dean gently set his beer down and took the handgun out from his waistband. Bobby grabbed his shotgun in the corner, and they walked into the hallway slowly, turning through the doorway and finding nothing but an envelope lying by the front door. Dean ignored the letter for a moment and inspected the front yard through the windows, but saw no one. He put his pistol away, and Bobby took that as a signal that he could relax, too.

Dean bent over and picked up the envelope. The paper was thick and off-white. There was no seal, no addressee, no information whatsoever on it, but Dean knew this paper from anywhere.

“What is it?” Bobby asked.

“Sam.” Dean opened the envelope and pulled out a letter on Sam’s usual stationary. The paper was thick like the envelope and had the king’s seal printed at the top with black ink and two horizontal barbed wire lines on either side to match the seal.

It didn’t take long to read the letter. Sam had handwritten it in his recognizable regal scratch, so the message was short and to the point.

“Huh,” Dean said.

“What?” Bobby asked, anxious.

“He actually managed to write me personally. It’s about damn time.” Dean stared at his brother’s familiar handwriting.

“Never mind the writing, boy, what’s it say!”

Dean huffed at Bobby’s impatience. “He wants to meet at some club called The Black Opal on Tuesday. Says he’s got important things to talk about.”

“What kind of important things?”

“Doesn’t say.” Dean looked back at the letter, turning it over in his hands, examining both sides of it.

“You gonna go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Whadoya mean _you don’t know?_ You’ve never not gone before, you think he’s just gonna let you pass this one time?”

Dean dropped his hands, forgetting the personal note. “I don’t know! I have to think about it.”

“No,” Bobby insisted, “You don’t. You’ll either be a knucklehead or you’ll go.”

Normally, Dean would brush off Bobby’s pushy suggestions, but his fuse was short lately, and the topic of Sam made it nearly nonexistent. “He can’t expect me to drop everything for him! I have a life, I have things going on!” he shouted.

Bobby raised his eyebrows at Dean, not saying a single word.

“And what could he possibly have to say to me that he hasn’t already?” Dean continued. “We don’t do family visits. I don’t see any point in this!” Dean shook the letter in front of his face.

Bobby sighed. “Well maybe you should do family visits! Maybe Sam’s trying to, trying to start talking to you again, trying not to be a king, trying to be your bro-”

“Oh come on! Really?” Dean threw his hand in the air, turning away from Bobby. “There’s an ulterior motive here. There always is.”

“Well I still think you should go,” Bobby said, his voice level and stern.

Dean rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Yeah, should probably tell him about the hunter after him too…”

“The what?”

“Nothing,” Dean said, brushing him off.

“Don’t you ‘nothing’ me, boy! You saying someone is trying to kill your brother, and you’re just gonna let them?”

“Sam can take care of himself.”

“Maybe so, but I’d want to know if someone was trying to kill me. I see that as common courtesy.” Bobby waited for Dean to respond, but he didn’t. “Man, you’ve really got a stick up your butt, don’t you?”

“You know what–” Dean started to argue, but thought better of it. “Never mind. I’m going to get some air.”

Dean turned on his heels and walked out the door, letting it slam behind him. He made a turn for the junkyard, speeding off into the maze of cars and other large rotting machinery. The salvage yard had always been a good place to think or to cope with the perils of the hunting life. Dean had grown up in these isles, played in the junk, and rebuilt Baby on this ground. Deep into the metal masses of stacked frames and bodies, not a sound could be heard but wind whistling through any holes in the junk it could find. Dean was guaranteed solitude in these halls, and he stopped in a particularly quiet space.

“Hello Dean.” Castiel’s voice broke the expected silence, and Dean jumped out of his skin.

He spun around to face the angel. “Jesus, Cas! What have I told you about doing that? You gotta give me some warning first!”

Castiel squinted his eyes and tilted his head like he always did. “I don’t have a cell phone. I don’t know what type of warning I could give you. I was just saying hello-”

Dean waved him off. “Alright, alright. You know, whatever. Why are you here?”

“I could hear your prayers. You seemed distraught.”

“I wasn’t- Stop listening in on my thoughts!”

“I wasn’t. Your voice is considerably louder in my head than most people’s. I imagine it’s because of the more profound bond we share.”

Castiel said this like it was the most obvious fact, but Dean was not so sure. “Well thanks, but I don’t need anything.”

“I know it’s about Sam.”

Sometimes Dean wondered if Castiel was actually bad at social interaction, or if he played dumb in order to pry information out of people. “Look, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Which is why you’re wandering around rusted vehicles, thinking loudly about Sam’s invitation to visit him.” Castiel waved his hand around the junkyard.

Dean rolled his eyes. Why was everyone prodding and poking him about his relationship with his brother today? “Yes! It’s about Sam! Got another one of his stupid letters today.” Dean mumbled the last bit and looked down at the ground, kicking some dirt up with his boot and watching it fly into the air in swirls and land on the top of his shoes.

Castiel considered this a moment before speaking. “I’m not an expert on human affairs, but I think you should consider not harboring so much distaste for your brother. If he were a real danger to earth, Heaven would’ve killed him by now.”

“Gee thanks. That’s really reassuring.”

“You’re welcome.” Castiel waited for Dean to continue the conversation, but he didn’t. “What does Sam want to talk about this time?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t say. Just that he wanted to meet at The Black Opal on Tuesday, some place in Chicago. I don’t get it. Hell is usually fine for him.”

“Maybe he’s thinking more of you. You do have a history with Hell.”

“Yes. I’m aware,” Dean said. His patience was wearing thinner, and he was trying not to take it out on Castiel. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that he was dealing with these family problems, but he didn’t know what everyone expected him to do.

“Are you going to visit him?”

Dean sighed, revisiting the idea once again. Despite his initial response to the invitation, he hadn’t really entertained declining it. Emotions and stubbornness always fueled his knee-jerk reactions. “Yeah I guess so,” he resigned, “I’ve gotta warn him about someone.”

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t really know her. Her name’s Y/N. She ran into me at a bar a couple nights ago and she’s got a hit on Sam. She’s working with Gordon, of all people.”

Castiel became very serious, readying his hands as if he were going to slide an angel blade out of his coat and fly away. “Do you want me to take care of her?”

“No! No, you can’t just go around killing women. She hasn’t done anything yet, and I doubt she’ll get close enough.”

Castiel relaxed again. “Oh. Well what do you think Sam will do with her?”

“I dunno. I’ll talk to him about it I guess. I just know I have to tell my brother when someone’s about to kill him.”

Castiel pondered that a moment, and smiled. “Yes, usually we do tell our brothers about those sorts of things. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, doesn’t really seem like I need to call–”

Dean looked up, but Castiel was gone before Dean could finish his sentence. He shook his head and turned back towards the house, his contemplating done and his decision made. Dean would let Bobby know he’d be going to Chicago after all. He’d have a few days to prepare for this meeting, but he’d still feel uneasy. No amount of time was ever quite enough to prepare him for visiting Sam.

* * *

Dean was not at his motel when you arrived this morning. He had skipped out a couple hours earlier, or so said the desk clerk. She had been loudly chewing gum and reading a Men’s Health magazine while talking at you, so her observation skills were questionable, but you had no other choice but to travel to Bobby Singer’s house. The drive was only half a day, so altogether it wouldn’t be a waste if you happened not to find anything. But you hoped something would come of it. You’d be back to square one if you lost Dean and ran out of leads all on the same day.

Bobby’s house was situated on a country road with nothing much else around it besides a small wooded area and fields. He had no close neighbors, and it was at least a twenty minute drive into town, which, you guessed, was exactly how he liked it. You knew you had reached his house because of the mounds of junk and cars that could be seen down the road. You drove by slowly, taking in what you could see of the front of the house. There was a fence around the property, with a large arch over the dirt driveway that read _Singer’s Auto Salvage_ in mitch match, rusty letters. But there was so much junk up front and overhanging trees, you couldn’t get a good look at the house. You’d have to park your car in a field nearby and scout out the property on foot.

The trees around the property obscured your vehicle from view, allowing you to walk to the edge of his yard without fear of being seen. The chain link fence around the house provided little cover, so you walked the edge in spurts, going from one set of bushes and trees to the next. The yard around the house was large, and it took you a couple minutes to walk to the back edge of the property. You turned left at the corner of the fence, continuing to walk along the edge of it with stealth. Once you reached the edge of the junkyard, you could relax a little. The fence was wooden here and completely hid you.

You couldn’t see much through this fence, though, except with any holes that might be there. You continued to walk the edge of the property, checking in through the holes, evaluating entrances and exits, taking note of any memorable details, like weapon stashes or habits of Singer. He didn’t seem to be home, though. There were too many cars up front, so you couldn’t see if his had been in the driveway. The entire property was quiet, the only sound you heard being the whistling of wind through the trees and the creaking of the metal in the junkyard.

You had reached the middle of the fence when you heard voices on the other side. You froze, ducking behind a tree. The voices continued to talk. They hadn’t heard or seen you. You popped back out from the tree and stood against the fence, finding a hole to peep through. You listened closely to the voices. One was definitely Dean Winchester. The other was deeper, and you didn’t recognize it. Through the peephole, you saw someone in a trench coat. _Definitely not Bobby Singer._ But what were the odds of finding Dean two days in a row? You had to be close to Sam now.

You leaned into the fence, listening intently to their conversation, hoping to pick up any useful information, ignoring the scratching of the weathered wood against your ears. They would be just a few scratches in addition to the numerous you had already gotten from the trek here.

_“I could hear your prayers. You seemed distraught.”_

Prayers? What the hell… Dean didn’t seem like the praying type, nor the type to hang around people who believed they could hear them. But the comment didn’t phase Dean. He continued to stand there, having a conversation with the nut job.

_“I know it’s about Sam.”_

You pushed against the fence harder, holding your breath as you listened. This was exactly what you needed, information about Sam.

_“…just that he wanted to meet at the The Black Opal on Tuesday…”_

This was more than a stroke of luck. This was payoff for all the work you’d been doing. Life was finally throwing something good your way, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic. You took off after you had heard all you needed to hear, running back through the thicket to your car. You hopped in and sped off, not needing to talk to Bobby or search his house anymore. You had the best lead, and it gave fuel to your dying inspiration, reignited the visions of victory once again. You could smell Sam’s blood in the air, whipping in through the open windows; you could feel the angel blade in your fingers, warmed metal ready to plunge into his chest. You would be out of Gordon’s debt. You would accomplish the greatest hunting feat. Sam would pay for his betrayal, for every evil thing he let happen.

You were finally going to get your justice.


	8. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone converges on The Black Opal, but will they each get what they want?

You were armed to the teeth, smile included. Your little black dress, strapless and form-fitting was your first line of defense, chosen to distract bouncers and patrons alike. The armor was embellished by a smokey eye and heels you could break your neck in. Your second line of defense was more interesting to you. On the inside of your fleece coat rested an angel blade. The cool metal burned a hole in your pocket as you practiced cliche battle stances in front of the motel mirror. A sly smile, a hair twirl, jutting out your hip to reveal curves. The secondary battle stances for the angel blade didn’t need to be practiced.

You checked the digital clock on the nightstand. It read eight thirty in bright green numbers. The Black Opal opened at nine. Dean never said a time for the meeting, so you were staking out until he got there. You didn’t care how long you had to wait. A few hours were nothing compared to the years of hurt and pain you had endured, nor could they be compared to the countless months you waited for an opportunity to purge the earth of the evil that had ruined your life. 

In a cigarette smoke-filled cab, you thought over your battle plan. Sam had chosen an excruciatingly pretentious establishment to host his meeting. All staff wore identical black slacks and button-ups along with a black mask over their face. You had no idea what purpose the masks served, but they gave you the perfect opportunity. Once you were inside the building, you would find a waitress about your size, knock her out, and switch outfits. The disguise would allow you to sneak up on Sam and Dean, acting as their server until you had the opportunity to attack. 

The angel blade burned an even bigger hole in your coat as you thought about how easy this mission would be to execute. By the time your cab pulled up to the sidewalk outside the Black Opal, your hand was on the door pushing it open. You threw some cash to the driver and never looked back. 

You took your place in line. There were a couple dozen people in front of you, all of them dressed similarly. You weren’t expecting this many people to be out on a weeknight. You craned your neck to look over them, gauging how fast the line was moving. People shuffled forward inch by inch, getting as close to the person in front of them as they could without touching them. You crossed your arms, daring the person behind you took take one more step and push into your back.

Five minutes passed when a patron entering the building who caught your eye. It was Dean Winchester. He was dressed expensively, the quality of his suit surprising you. He was let in before everyone else, accompanied by two men who were probably demons. Judging by how the bouncer let them through, he was probably a demon, too. Would most of the employees be possessed tonight for security? Sam would no doubt have every entrance and exit monitored. Why hadn’t you thought of that before?

Never mind what you hadn’t thought of. You would stick to your plan with minor adjustments. 

You short-cutted the line, darting to the front and ignoring the faint cries of protest behind you. Your first line of defense was put in play. 

You caught the bouncer’s attention by walking up to him and using your battle poses. When his eyes met yours, you twirled your hair around your finger as if you had expected the attention. “Like what you see?”

The man, who seemed bigger than a door and more boring than a doorknob, couldn’t be bothered. “What’s your name?” 

You rattled off a fake name. He pulled up his phone, scrolling through a list. You didn’t know there would be a list.

“Your name’s not on the list for tonight.”

You kept going with your first battle plan. “Dontcha think you could help a girl out? I’m just trying to find a nice guy for the night, that’s all,” you said with a slight whine to your voice. You sounded pathetic. 

“Sorry, can’t let you in.”

Frustration kicked in. You didn’t know what to do next, so you reverted to your natural stance. You balled your hands into fists and stared down the bouncer. It happened for only a split second before you realized what you had done and relaxed, but that was all the demon needed.

The man tapped his phone a few times and put it up to his ear. You slipped out of line only to be grabbed by one of the bouncer’s firm hands. You looked back at him. He sneered as he talked to whoever was on the other line. 

“Roach, Clarke, I need you two at the main entrance now. Got a little something for you.”

* * *

Dean couldn’t stop pulling at the collar of his dress shirt as he sat in the rear of a blacked-out sedan. His usual escorts sat silently in the front seats, uninterested in chatter of any kind. Dean fidgeted in his seat searching for something to think about other than Sam. The interior smelled like leather, cleaning products, and a faint hint of sulfur. The smells were familiar to him now. His suit was not, although it fit perfectly. The fabric was the highest quality he’d ever worn, delivered to his hotel room by Sam’s henchmen, but he itched all over. His neck and forehead were sweating and his deodorant was giving out. His shirt suffocated him, the back of his seat was too stiff, and he couldn’t wipe his palms on his pants enough times to dry them. 

He always got this way before meeting Sam. The sweaty palms and restless limbs never failed to make an appearance. He missed the familiarity of Sam. Everytime he went into one of these meetings, a small part of him hoped to see a different side of the man, one he recognized, but each time Dean was disappointed. The letdowns were exhausting, but he couldn’t help himself, not even now. Maybe Sam would crack a joke shared between the two of them as kids. Maybe he could call Sam “bitch” and he’d respond like he used to. Maybe Dean’s brother was in there somewhere. Maybe Sam hadn’t died. 

Dean did not have much time to ponder the hope. His demon escorts stopped in front of a large gray stone building and one of them opened his door. He stepped out into the busy night, sounds of vehicles speeding past and loud chatter filing the air. Groups and pairs of men and women dressed in suits, dresses, and overcoats crossed the street to stand in line. Dean followed the demon past these people. They did not give him a second glance as he bypassed the line and entered through the mahogany double door. 

Inside the club, house beats pulsed as patrons drank cocktails at the bars on either side of the room. Hues of purple, red, and blue fell over black furniture and glossy black floors, giving the club its name. Dean’s escort bypassed the bars, weaving through dancing people towards the back of the first floor. Sweaty bodies and drinks brushed against Dean as he followed his escort closely. Once or twice he caught a glimpse of masked individuals in the crowd and behind the bars making drinks. They creeped him out. 

They reached the back wall where few people stood in pairs whispering to each other, sipping on drinks or crawling on one another as if they were alone. Dean turned towards the left and saw bathrooms in an alcove. Just on the edge of the alcove was a set of stairs leading upward. Dean followed the demon up the black, glossy steps to a long, empty, quiet hallway. The decor was no less opulent than downstairs. Colored lights washed over every square inch of the glossy black walls and floor. Paintings in gold frames lined the hall spaced between doors. Their shoes clicked on the floor as they walked down the hall. 

The demon stopped midway down the hall in front of one of the doors. Dean cleared his throat and adjusted his suit, wiping the last layer of sweat off his brow as the demon opened the door. 

Dean stepped inside the private room. Sam was the first face he saw, facing him as he sat on a couch. Sam’s white suit stood out shockingly against the black leather. The door shut behind Dean and he glanced back to see that the demon had left him. He turned back around, feeling his throat going dry. Three people sat in black leather chairs with their backs to Dean, chatting amongst themselves and sipping drinks. They did not seem to care that Dean had entered the room, nor that Sam was getting off the couch and walking towards him. Sam stopped in front of Dean, and Dean’s breath caught in his throat. There was something deeply unsettling and intimidating about Sam tonight. 

“It’s so good to see you, Dean. I’m happy you’re here,” Sam motioned to the empty space on the couch, “We have a lot to talk about.”

* * *

The demon bouncer wasn’t loosening his grip as you waited for Roach and Clark, whoever they were, to make an appearance. You held back every ounce of self-defense instincts you had in order not to cause a scene in front of the civilians. You would never put them in the crossfire. 

Two surly men rounded the corner of the building and approached the bouncer. They were clean shaven and their suits neatly pressed, but you could tell by the sneer on their faces they weren’t afraid to get dirty. 

“Take her around back,” the bouncer said, shoving you into the arms of the other two. 

You hit them with a thud, and they gripped your arms, pulling you around the building more forcefully than necessary. 

The two guards stopped on the backside of the building in a poorly lit alley. A wooden fence lined the back of the property. There was a dumpster off to the side. The property didn’t extend much in the back. You’d have to run left or right to get away.

One of them slammed you against the wall, and your head cracked against the stone. 

You laughed, swallowing back the sting on your back and the dizziness in your head. “Ah come on, a girl needs some foreplay before we get rough.”

One of the demon’s hands grasped your throat. “We know who you are. You’re the hunter who's been hunting down demons. You know what we could do to you for how many of us you’ve killed?”

“I could think of a few things, none of them I’d really care to stick around and find out,” you whispered hoarsely. 

He tightened his grip. “You’re lucky we have specific orders tonight not to kill. What are you doing here?”

“I’m just trying to get in the club,” you wheezed, “I saw the signs of demon activity and wanted to see what was up. There’s a lot of you scum holed up in there and I want to know why.”

The demon’s eyes bored into yours and you squirmed under the pressure of his gaze. Had your lie been convincing enough?

“Like I said, you’re lucky we’re under strict orders tonight, otherwise I’d slit your throat right here and leave your body in the dumpster behind me.” He threw you down to the ground. “Instead I’m going to give you a warning.”

Before you could get up and run, or slip the angel blade from your coat, the demon delivered a swift kick to your ribs and your head, knocking you unconscious and leaving you in the alley.

* * *

Dean obliged Sam’s request and sat uncomfortably on the couch. The three others in the room, Crowley, Meg, and Ruby, fell silent as Sam took his seat next to Dean. 

“How are you doing, Dean?” Sam said, completely focused on him. 

Dean could feel the three pairs of eyes on him as he looked at Sam. He didn’t like talking in front of them. He had expected this meeting to be private.

“Been better,” he answered, “Usually am when I’m not surrounded by demons.”

“Watch it big boy. That kind of talk is gonna get you in trouble,” Meg said.

Sam put a hand up to Meg. “Don’t.”

“Yes, Meg. Control your mouth.” This time it was Ruby speaking. 

Dean watched the two women glare at each other. He waited for Sam to snap at them, but Sam remained focused on Dean.

“I bet you're wondering why I picked this venue to meet,” Sam said.

“I figured you were just showing off.” 

“No,” Sam punctuated, pursing his lips. “I wanted you to be more comfortable. I assumed you wouldn't want to be in Hell again.”

Dean scoffed. “That didn't stop you before.”

Sam pouted. Dean caught a glimpse of Sam’s old puppy-eyed face that used to convince Dean to do anything. Now, the look made him uneasy. 

“Another reason I chose this place is because it's one of my favorites. I like the atmosphere and I appreciate the uniforms. I've sure you've seen them?”

“They're hard to miss,” Dean grunted. 

“Yes, that's the point. I like them because it forces you to notice the actions of the employees rather than their appearance. You're forced to judge them by who they really are. And because of that, they provide excellent service.”

Dean caught the point Sam was trying to make but he didn’t care. “That's really deep, really thought out. But I didn't come here for a soap box.”

Sam sighed. “I know, I wanted to talk to you about something and... it’s not easy to talk about.”

Sam waited for Dean to respond, but Dean didn’t know what was expected of him, so he waited. 

“It has to do with your death.”

“Why do we need to talk about that?” Dean questioned harshly. “I thought that was dealt with.”

“It was, it's just that,” Sam seemed to be struggling to find his words, something Dean hadn’t seen him do in years. He ran a hand over his chin. “Have you heard anything about the apocalypse?”

“The what?” Dean asked, leaning forward. Nausea was growing in his stomach.

“Yes. The apocalypse. Lucifer rises, Michael comes down, they fight in the battle of the millennia, destroying the world in the process.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with me. That’s all just biblical garbage. It’s not actually true.”

“It is true. And there’s a very specific way to begin the process of releasing Lucifer. It involves breaking seals, sixty-six to be exact.”

Dean scoffed. “That’s original.”

“There are more seals than that of course. Someone wanting to open the cage could pick from any number of them, as long as they break sixty-six. Except for the first and last seal. Those have to be very specific.”

“And what are those seals?”

“The last seal is killing the first demon, Lilith. The first requires that a righteous man falls.”

“That sounds clear as mud,” Dean said. 

There was a long pause before Sam spoke again. 

“Dean, you were that righteous man. In the same way I am Lucifer’s vessel, you are Michael’s. We are two brothers destined from the beginning of time to be pitted against one another. When you made that deal and ended up in Hell, eventually turning and torturing souls yourself, you broke the first seal.”

Dean didn’t know what to say or think. He could feel all eyes on him, mostly Sam’s. Anger and guilt slammed into his chest, knocking him breathless. “I did…what?”

“I didn’t want to have to tell you. I waited to see if anything would come of it. But now more seals are breaking and I need your help. I wanted you to know everything first.“

Dean stood, alarming the other demons. They watched him closely.

“You’re saying I started the apocalypse.”

Sam stood. “No, it hasn’t begun yet. Not enough seals have been broken.”

“But it wouldn’t even be a possibility if it weren’t for me.”

“Dean-”

“No. No, I can’t help you. You lied to me.” Dean turned away, wiping tears from his cheeks. He took two steps before spinning back around, “And you know what else? This is your fault,” he said, jabbing a finger toward Sam’s chest. “If you hadn’t gone with Azazel, I wouldn’t have had to make that deal. This is your problem. So deal with it on your own.”

“I know you’re angry-”

“Angry doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“But my forces can only cover so much ground. If you could get some hunters to help you, with our combined forces, we could prevent this apocalypse. I don’t want to see it happen any more than you do.”

Dean laughed coldly. “Me? Get hunters to work with your demons? You’re delusional. Take your apocalypse and shove it where the sun don’t shine cus I ain’t doing shit for you!”

Dean fled towards the door. No one stopped him.

Sam had one last thing to say. “You’re not doing it for me, Dean. You’re doing it for the entire world. And your hunters, I bet, would be more than willing to save the world they live in. No one wants the apocalypse.”

Dean wouldn’t turn around to face Sam again. He had all intentions of walking out the door without speaking. Then he remembered you. Why he thought of you in this moment, he didn’t know. 

“There’s a hunter after you. Teamed up with Gordon. Name’s Y/N. Thought you should know,” Dean said before exiting the room.

* * *

You sprung to your feet in darkness, wobbling as you popped up. You threw a punch, the last thing you remembered being the hands of a demon around your neck. No one was around. The glow of a dying streetlamp light filtered through a foggy mist. The only sounds you heard were a few cars passing by and the wind in your ears. There was no music or talking people. You ran to the front of building, slowed by aching feet and a sharp pain in your ribs. You slowed to a walk, reaching into your pocket for your weapon. The angel blade was gone. 

You turned the corner around the building and saw that the lights were shut off and doors locked for the night. You’d missed Sam and Dean. All that work, the streak of luck, had gotten you nowhere. You stood in the middle of downtown, your hair messy and your heels scuffed. You were injured, pathetic and lonely, and you had nowhere to go. 

As if to give yourself some small task to do, your stomach grumbled, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten all day. You looked left and right down the street. There was a single restaurant sign still lit, so you stalked towards the food. It was a chinese diner. The ring of a bell echoed as you opened the greasy door, alerting the two people on staff and the one inebriated customer in the far booth that you had entered the restaurant. You fell into a booth, ordered three plates off the menu, and ate your anger in unhealthy amounts of lo mein, egg rolls, and bourbon chicken. You gave yourself no time to mope. 

When the plates were empty, you shoved them away, laid some cash on the table, and slid out of your booth. Your hand was on the door when you were stopped by the woman working behind the counter. 

"Ma'am," she questioned, eyes too bright and smile too warm the time of night, "Fortune cookie?"

You pushed on the door. Fortune cookies had no point and you'd never really cared for the crunchy sweetness. Then you thought, what the hell, why not. You walked back to the counter, politely took the cookie, and exited the restaurant.

You didn’t open the cookie right away. Back at your motel room, you tossed the package on your bed and ditched your coat and dress, throwing the shoes and clothes into a corner. You wiped the makeup from your face with a washcloth and brushed your teeth. Foregoing pajamas for the night, you fell backwards onto the thin mattress and were reminded of the cookie. The pointy, plastic package stuck you in the back.

You arched your back and reached a hand awkwardly underneath it to grab the cookie. You tore open the package above you and unceremoniously tossed the wrapper to the side. You broke the cookie in half above your face, instantly regretting doing so as crumbs fell onto your face. A corner of the slip of paper stuck out, making it easy to remove, smooth out, and read. 

_The object of your desire comes closer._

You scoffed. “Yeah, you're a little late on that one,” you said to an empty room.

You scrunched up the paper and threw it to the side along with the cookie. Neither were good enough to keep. Then you went to sleep.

* * *

Sam was back in Hell after the fiasco with Dean, alone in his room and pacing the length of it as he thought about what to do next. He wanted to contact Dean again to apologize, but he imagined that letter would be thrown into a fire before it was opened. 

There was a knock at his door. He expected it to be Ruby, who he had already told that he wasn’t interested in fooling around tonight. She hadn’t taken to his tone kindly. 

“I already told you Ruby, I need to be alone.”

“It’s not Ruby, sir. It’s Newman.” The voice came through Sam’s thick door muffled. 

“Come in,” Sam said begrudgingly. “And make this quick.”

Newman came in and closed the door behind him. He bowed quickly before speaking. “There was a hunter at the club tonight. She was the one who’s been hunting us down systematically. We took care of her though, sir.”

Sam almost waved Newman off but was reminded of Dean’s last words to him. 

“That’s all this woman said about herself? That she was hunting demons?”

“Yes, sir. She said she noticed the demon activity and came to find out why we were there.”

“Where is she now?”

“We left her unconscious behind the club.”

“She’s probably long gone by now,” Sam muttered, looking away. His head popped back up with an idea. “Go find Meg and bring her here. I want to talk to both of you.”

The demon returned with Meg in tow a few minutes later. She entered behind Newman with a look on her face that asked, _Why am I being summoned with this lower ranking demon?_

Sam had Newman retell the story of the woman in full detail to Meg. 

“So you think this is the hunter who’s out to kill you?” she asked. 

“Yes,” Sam said, “And I want you to be in charge of finding her. I want to know her business with Gordon and why she wants to kill me. And you will take Newman with you. He knows what she looks like.”

Meg did not jump at the task. “Why not send your best throne buddy instead? She’d be more than happy to catch the hunter trying to kill her king.”

“Ruby won’t do as I ask. She’ll take it too far. I don’t want this woman harmed, do you understand me? I only want her surveilled and then brought to me. You know I have to be careful not to start a war with the hunters. Hopefully all this hunter needs is a warning to deter her from her mission.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure she’ll have a complete change of mind after being in Hell.” 

“Meg, you will find this hunter and you will bring her to me.”

“Yes sir,” she said with another eye roll, turning on her heels and walking out the door. 

Sam waved Newman off and returned to his session of pacing and contemplation. He needed Dean’s help. He needed him as a connection to hunters and he needed Dean to work with him as his brother. They always had each other’s backs before and whether Dean believed him or not, Sam wanted that now. Sam was willing to do what was necessary to gain Dean’s trust, but he doubted Dean was in the same place. Nevertheless, Dean did warn him about the hunter, so he took that as a sign that maybe Dean didn’t hate Sam as much as he let on. 

If he could convince Dean to help him and get this hunter off the path of killing him, he might end up with two hunters on his side.


End file.
